Babies of Amerka

 

 Over & Out, Under & Around

3/14

    Come out young babies of Amerka,
young men in particular,
murky weather will end,
sunlight of spring, mud emerges,
worms wriggle, bricks laugh,
stones and concrete mercy wear,
to fly over apocalyptic nonsense,
even you can be an immigrant
again.

    Bring under the hands of Amerka
nothing you haven’t seen before,
repurposed and fallen, drifting,
weeping single lines of words,
the future is nothing but all
braveness and courage,
the high winds come from other
lands, these people are gently living
too.

    I know I don’t know and probably never
will know a thing in Amerka, my
father was the one who went
from coast to coast, my mother
unseen, following behind, hand in
hand for a while, the song
moving to her lips and belly,
the kiss moving then to another,
who passed.

    Chant about death then in lousy
Amerka, a great eraser of memory
and memorial, mothers who weep alone
from eeryies high, concrete boxes,
bones for a nest, wrinkles slip,
eyes glare and stare between
lifting screens, timeless colors,
blood fullness, what voice!
cha cha cha!

    Only in the 60’s was white Amerka revealed
and fit again, semblances of the demos,
muscle and sex true passion, since then,
understandings have faded, lain
still as cliffs, there are no cliffs
in Amerka to fall over, we
need the right cliff and not
the stupid Golden Gate, now
suicide proofed, Death Don’t Have
Amerka chanting yet.

    Got no excuses except the deep freeze
was injected, a poison below the belt,
a scream of agonized twisting wind,
Amerka bombs Hiroshima again and
again, teach you all what the eye
on the pyramid can do,
any leafless moment of high summer,
my dream catcher is left flying tho,
an Osprey.

    The Osprey I saw soaring wide above
a pond damned by an ancient factory
in Worcester Mass, an abandoned mini golf
course next door and a Walmart
across the street from my Mother’s
secret safe house for womyn, but
my brother broke in that evening
drunk and the tears flowed for
Mom, known as Jay, instead of Goddess
stories.

    I didn’t know anything til recently,
these stories that never end & raise the hair,
but sometimes nightmares I wish I had, a roar
of Occupy’s Bear killing the Bull
on Wall Street, Main Street Amerka,
self hate, too late, our fate, dream
state, “Billy Boy, Did You know?” as I
stare blankly as slate under felt, a pool
table.

    And ping pong Chinese tai chi civilized
communist drivel, Fan Shen, family meetings,
egg drop soup humpty dumpty visions,
I know I’m a werewolf now in
Amerka’s foul shit filled night, Trump
fears me but can’t see me yet, even
as he rides Custer’s horse to D.C.,
a marvelous ending isn’t it,
the war drums beating all the while
for alcoholic Amerkans telling another
story.

    Studio 54 gentrified solidified,
ambushed, our own Clark Park in
West Philly drained as the 5,000 unit
buildingness, Ayn Ran’s toilet goes up,
my first girl friend went to a woke
school underneath there in a Victorian
3 story twin with Disco Duck, an early
famed graffiti artist of subway tunnels,
the flashing of his name under reaching-
over-lights, a trolley ride.

    I memorialize so many since then
Amerka, Wino and his ‘I Hate Art That
Hangs In Museums' and for 'Those Who Are
Conscious' From 52nd St second floor Aschak,
thanks be for any grace at all
as I take one more breath, round the corner
from Wheels of Soul’s one percenters,
he got shot and torn away but I ran
into gentle eyes tending bar there,
mother of Bogg’s daughter and son
who died in my home so I testified
of character.
    
    Amerka’s character dream, Move’s
character dream, the KKK is in the cities
too we know, ashes raising across the
Rainbow, guns melting, words hoping
singing rapping, One Love Amerka
Marley his last tour Houston Hall opening
spring narcissus daffodils in our front yard
a wild flower meadow. Noise in Amerka.
One saxophone on a roof on
49th St.

    Over and out! that trucker’s CB handle
I was hitching a ride on 70 east from under
a bridge going home tho I didn’t know it
a murmur saying Hate Has No Home Here,
all anger has no home, any bullet is
a weeping, a siren across
a turtle’s island, row homes, garbage
collectors, singers, a balcony, arms
are pointing, he had a dream, my parents
in that throng of joy.

    Wash me in the river, or whatever
words suit you Amerka, children of
darkness know even more than the Sun
can say on it’s long journey into what
promises can be made and perhaps
fulfilled, there’s still time, hail Mary
and William Penn’s shout of Who Cares!?!
from atop my City Hall, a courtyard
of Jesus’s and Jesus’s babies always
crying.

    but not weeping yet, the difference being
dreams turn to visions in the sweaty water
of those singular tears and visions see
only God and Goddess and the Great Spirit
who is wise beyond measure, democracy
without leisure, cringing, singing
tattooing on souls that have walked these
sidewalks and stoop sitting alone, learning
your name is not enough, Big Mike,
I’ll always remember our chicken dinner on
Budd St.

    And miss Rose with roses in her
front yard, she wanted to sell me her home
when she died but I moved too soon to
a bigger house, too big, now rotting
and empty, I’m dragging books and
my Grandma Margaret’s letters from
the year my mother was born, I’ll read
them late tonight, seed them into a
spring time field long overgrown and
understood.

    Call Eugene today, go to Verizon,
turn off the gas on Chestnut St, the woods
replenish like unstoppable moss the rocky
beachless Maine coast with the cutest
lighthouse, Russian invades again we know
in movies being filmed, war porn,
war torn, I Dream Of Jeanie with the light
brown hair, she twinkles her nose and
the wind blows.

 strangely this appeared out of nowhere as I did some typo in the middle of transcribing this poem from my journal to here, larger font and all. It’s actually the name of a book by Byung-Chul Han:
The Disappearance of Rituals
 Which raises up the paranoia of interactings in the digital dream world from which I’m hoping that becoming a chanter of poetry might protect me. Aha, got it, must have been the last thing I copied onto the clip board yesterday. I’d like to get his key book (evidently) called ‘The Burnout Society’, because I certainly feel burned out.