THE REVOLUTION IS NOT LIKE A FAUCET
The Revolution does not begin
over coffee at the Epicurean,
does not begin over gravy and grits,
in the first joint, the last hit,
the Morning Chron, your morning shit.
The Revolution does not begin
pulling greenchain on the graveyard shift,
or making the welfare line by nine.
The Revolution doesn't begin
in your mind, your heart, your liver,
your prick, doesn't begin
when you clench your fist,
The Revolution doesn't being in 1776,
1917, the depression, the dawn,
doesn't begin with gurus, Cinques,
the news from L.A. Havana, manana.
The Revolution doesn't begin
with both barrels, at the bottom of bottles,
on the pages of bibles, with the blues.
The Revolution does not begin,
The Revolution has no beginning.
The Revolution is unending.
The Revolution is not like a faucet –
you can't turn it on and off.
The Revolution leaks all the time –
you can’t call a plumber to fix it.
*******************************
Arcata California U.S.A 1976
JOURNALISM
The Midnight Special
burrows into the bowels of
the North American nightmare
like a sleek silver tapeworm
consuming the body fat of
the most overstuffed nation on earth.
The rules for travel
are posted at the terminals:
Report all suspicious activities.
Do not leave luggage unattended.
Protect your back at all times
from suicide bombers,
Homeland Security,
GMO corn, AIDS, Anthrax,
The Anti-Christ.
the New York Times.
I scratch out a map
in a wilderness of white paper
that bloodies the nation
with crimson headlines
from sea to stinking sea.
I can no longer parse the horror.
The scales have fallen
from my snake eyes
and the serpent has shed its skin.
There is no one lie
worth dying for.
Ir al lugar de los hechos,
Go to the place where it happened.
That is the first rule of the finding.
They will not want you there
but you will learn much
from their fury.
Write it all down
right away in your head.
Do not let the details leak out
no matter how badly
they beat you.
Do not forget their faces.
Do not believe everything
they say. Do not believe
anything you read.
**********************
Autumn 2004, San Francisco
The Midnight Special
burrows into the bowels of
the North American nightmare
like a sleek silver tapeworm
consuming the body fat of
the most overstuffed nation on earth.
The rules for travel
are posted at the terminals:
Report all suspicious activities.
Do not leave luggage unattended.
Protect your back at all times
from suicide bombers,
Homeland Security,
GMO corn, AIDS, Anthrax,
The Anti-Christ.
the New York Times.
I scratch out a map
in a wilderness of white paper
that bloodies the nation
with crimson headlines
from sea to stinking sea.
I can no longer parse the horror.
The scales have fallen
from my snake eyes
and the serpent has shed its skin.
There is no one lie
worth dying for.
Ir al lugar de los hechos,
Go to the place where it happened.
That is the first rule of the finding.
They will not want you there
but you will learn much
from their fury.
Write it all down
right away in your head.
Do not let the details leak out
no matter how badly
they beat you.
Do not forget their faces.
Do not believe everything
they say. Do not believe
anything you read.
**********************
Autumn 2004, San Francisco
THE OPEN VEINS OF THE PEOPLE
"…y mis venas no terminan en mi
sino en la sangre unaname
de todos los que luchan
para la vida…" Roque Dalton
They will bloody the new moon
with their terrible daggers,
blunt the horns
of this luminous crescent,
and rip open the night
that mothers us all.
The killers will fall upon us
and all dreaming
will be disallowed.
Only the screams
of the skinned victims
will be acceptable
in this brand-new
Amerikkan nightmare.
We have come here
to this ancient land
to share with our blood
brothers and sisters
the evisceration of hope,
We say that we will stand
between the bombs of Bush
and the cradle of civilization
but indeed this is all metaphor
and pantomime. Now only
a god who died long ago
can deconstruct the monsters
who plan this genocide.
I am an old man
who has lived
an honorable life
and now seeks
an honorable death –
but I refuse, above all,
to surrender
my beating heart
to these whores of war.
Wherever my soul
shall fly tomorrow,
it will never stop cursing
that bastard who calls himself Bush
and I shall survive
in the flowers of the desert
and the open veins of the people.
******************************
Baghdad/March 2nd 2003 (presented at the Iraqi National Theater)
"…y mis venas no terminan en mi
sino en la sangre unaname
de todos los que luchan
para la vida…" Roque Dalton
They will bloody the new moon
with their terrible daggers,
blunt the horns
of this luminous crescent,
and rip open the night
that mothers us all.
The killers will fall upon us
and all dreaming
will be disallowed.
Only the screams
of the skinned victims
will be acceptable
in this brand-new
Amerikkan nightmare.
We have come here
to this ancient land
to share with our blood
brothers and sisters
the evisceration of hope,
We say that we will stand
between the bombs of Bush
and the cradle of civilization
but indeed this is all metaphor
and pantomime. Now only
a god who died long ago
can deconstruct the monsters
who plan this genocide.
I am an old man
who has lived
an honorable life
and now seeks
an honorable death –
but I refuse, above all,
to surrender
my beating heart
to these whores of war.
Wherever my soul
shall fly tomorrow,
it will never stop cursing
that bastard who calls himself Bush
and I shall survive
in the flowers of the desert
and the open veins of the people.
******************************
Baghdad/March 2nd 2003 (presented at the Iraqi National Theater)
TRIBUNAL
We emerge from hours
days of hours
hours of minutes
minutes of seconds
entombed in darkness
so heavily freighted
with the corpses
of a hundred thousand Iraqis
that we cannot breath
a cavern of horrors
this war
it is with us every second
of every minute
of every hour
this war
weighing like a coffin
upon our pierced hearts
blindfolding us
before the torturers
this war
they attach the cables
to our genitals
jam them up our rectums
searing us with
jolt after jolt
of their imperial
power tools
this war
we are beaten with rods,
with chains, with each other,
our minds are scooped out
by American monkeys
wielding stainless steel spoons
the noise of this rendering
pummels our ear drums
as we watch our loved ones
drawn and quartered
forced to fake fuck each other
in the drizzling gloom
upon Bush's Murder Machine
until our twisted lacerated
corpses can no longer
feel the sensation
or taste the pain
this war
we are frozen
in cryogenic darkness
from which we are
only allowed to emerge
drained and punctured
on the third day
after the crucifixion
resurrected by our rage
and then suddenly
as if nothing happened
really
as if it was just one more
bad dream
really
we are in stunning sunlight
above the azure sea
watching the ferries
drift off to Asia
the memory of
this war
a black blot
on the back of the brain
like a paralyzing migraine
that never goes away.
********************
Istanbul June 2005
THE THREE DEATHS OF MISTER LEE
para Lee Kwang Hai y los y las compas de Via Campesina
Mister Lee had some cows
but he lost them to the bank.
His friends explained sadly
how sometimes Mister Lee
would return to his lost farm
and just sit there
staring at the fallow land
blowing away in the wind.
Times are tough for small farmers
in Korea,
in Mexico,
in India,
in Palestine
in the South,
the North, the East, the West,
he had some land,
he had some cows,
he lost them both
to the bank or the government
or the World Trade Organization,
something bigger than himself.
That was Mister Lee's first death.
After Mister Lee's first death
he flew to Cancun in Mexico
to protest with many campesinos
the WTO,
the banks,
the governments,
the something-bigger-than themselves.
They were angry.
They wanted to sweep them all
into the deep blue Caribbean sea,
and on the Day of their Dead.
the Koreans carried a dragon
to the gates of the Palace
and tried to shake them down.
Mister Lee who was not young anymore,
climbed the barricade
and with a warrior cry,
plunged the dagger
deep into his sad heart.
I saw him teeter and fall,
his rich red blood
spurting into the earth
as he merged with his ancestors.
That was Mister Lee's second death,
The day after
Mister Lee's second death,
a handful of farmers
wearing straw sombreros
and green kerchiefs,
brought candles and white flowers
to mourn Mister Lee
right inside the belly of the beast.
For hours, they marched
round and round
the Cancun Convention Center
laden with their sadness,
so dignified by it
that their authority
caused the officials
of the World Trade Organization
to flinch, an incommong posture
for such great men.
Then the campesinos built an altar,
all candle wax, incense, and white petals,
to remember the lost lands
the lost cows,
the lost dreams,
the dead farmers
spread under the blazing sun
south, north, east, west.
And on the second day
after Mister Lee's second death,
we circle-danced in the street
and sang anthems to the moon
and even the Cancun police
began to weep.
And on the third day
after Mister Lee's second death,
we pulled down the barricades
and Chaac rained down
upon the still-green ground
and we prayed to the gods
that we could all be Mister Lee.
And on the fourth day
after Mister Lee's second death,
the delegates from the poor places
in the south, the north, the east, the west,
took Mister Lee into their hearts
and the talks collapsed into ashes
in the mouths of the powerful
and we all went home laughing.
That was Mister Lee's third death,
the one he liked best,
his resurrection and ascent
into the lost land
from which he would be born
forever
again and again.
************
Cancun
September 2003
para Lee Kwang Hai y los y las compas de Via Campesina
Mister Lee had some cows
but he lost them to the bank.
His friends explained sadly
how sometimes Mister Lee
would return to his lost farm
and just sit there
staring at the fallow land
blowing away in the wind.
Times are tough for small farmers
in Korea,
in Mexico,
in India,
in Palestine
in the South,
the North, the East, the West,
he had some land,
he had some cows,
he lost them both
to the bank or the government
or the World Trade Organization,
something bigger than himself.
That was Mister Lee's first death.
After Mister Lee's first death
he flew to Cancun in Mexico
to protest with many campesinos
the WTO,
the banks,
the governments,
the something-bigger-than themselves.
They were angry.
They wanted to sweep them all
into the deep blue Caribbean sea,
and on the Day of their Dead.
the Koreans carried a dragon
to the gates of the Palace
and tried to shake them down.
Mister Lee who was not young anymore,
climbed the barricade
and with a warrior cry,
plunged the dagger
deep into his sad heart.
I saw him teeter and fall,
his rich red blood
spurting into the earth
as he merged with his ancestors.
That was Mister Lee's second death,
The day after
Mister Lee's second death,
a handful of farmers
wearing straw sombreros
and green kerchiefs,
brought candles and white flowers
to mourn Mister Lee
right inside the belly of the beast.
For hours, they marched
round and round
the Cancun Convention Center
laden with their sadness,
so dignified by it
that their authority
caused the officials
of the World Trade Organization
to flinch, an incommong posture
for such great men.
Then the campesinos built an altar,
all candle wax, incense, and white petals,
to remember the lost lands
the lost cows,
the lost dreams,
the dead farmers
spread under the blazing sun
south, north, east, west.
And on the second day
after Mister Lee's second death,
we circle-danced in the street
and sang anthems to the moon
and even the Cancun police
began to weep.
And on the third day
after Mister Lee's second death,
we pulled down the barricades
and Chaac rained down
upon the still-green ground
and we prayed to the gods
that we could all be Mister Lee.
And on the fourth day
after Mister Lee's second death,
the delegates from the poor places
in the south, the north, the east, the west,
took Mister Lee into their hearts
and the talks collapsed into ashes
in the mouths of the powerful
and we all went home laughing.
That was Mister Lee's third death,
the one he liked best,
his resurrection and ascent
into the lost land
from which he would be born
forever
again and again.
************
Cancun
September 2003
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Contents this page:
- THE REVOLUTION IS NOT LIKE A FAUCET
- JOURNALISM
- THE OPEN VEINS OF THE PEOPLE
- TRIBUNAL
- THE THREE DEATHS OF MISTER LEE
These poems are from BOMBA -
available from the author
available from the author
