he was radicalized in
the marshes of Vietnam
when they told him to fire
his loaded gun at a
group of school children

a dissident who
marched on Washington
with a Reverend and a King
and read Žižek Zinn and
Chomsky's reflections on direct
action and anarchistic philosophy

a staunch opponent of
police brutality in his
fifties he protested the
****** of Rodney King

he did not go quietly
into the black abyss but
raged against a putrescent
apparatus obsessed with control

he died waiting for the Revolution

Who plays a game?
Who learns to speak French enough to drink their wine
To make a life for their children
Is it enough while others resist?

Just a mile from freedom town
The men all gathered there
They weren’t going to stand down
No flag could block the glare

They said it was time to defend
The words they read were near
They didn’t live to play pretend
Their beliefs stronger than fear

It became clear
Crazy was doing nothing
But doing things you don’t want to do
Is like being a ******* in the middle of a war
Or sacrificing a life for people who won’t know the difference

Turn off the radio
The news isn’t good
A soldier who’s seen death
Is always ready to stand up
He’s fears not for his last breath
Does he live in your neighborhood?

Who plays a game?
Who learns to pray every day walking under an umbrella
Fear instead of faith
Is it enough just to exist?

Just a mile from Crows ridge
The people all gathered there
They weren’t afraid to cross the bridge
This time it was their turn to dare

They said it is our time now
The dream was finally near
Still they burn inside the vow
Fifty years gone without fear

It became clear
Slavery was doing nothing
But doing what you have to do
Is never losing again in your own home
When the past remains a part of your resistance

Turn up the radio
The song says you should
A singer tired of death
Is always ready to stand up
He cries in between each breath
If I were him I wonder if I would

So many relationships like bad business partnerships:
green bottles falling from walls; messages stuck in bottles
rotating in great gyres; swallows never at home North or South.
(Anti-Confessional? — It’s a fashionable trend just now
and yet what is it not to confess, when we claim authorship?)

Suburbia’s flat evenness suffocates (but I’ve repeated this
so many times and I’m still here!).
We need to find the cracks in which to grow, in which to place,
our errant thoughts like rude whispers in a darkened room,
and nobody about to hear you anyway!

We express ourselves well in silence but me, I gyrate,
not quite on one side or the other, a kind of even fullness,
or, that’s what I like to think, let’s get this straight:
I’m an uncouth wind against plains that offer no obstacles.
Better to wear me that way — it saves the snap under pressure.

It was supposed to be
The dawn of a new age;
A new set of dialogue
On a more balanced stage
With better lines for
The actors to deliver.
It was supposed to start in
The sixties and last forever.

We didn’t really know for sure
What this Aquarius stuff was
But it seemed to us to be
A metaphysical enough cause,
To change the way we acted
And to shout down the rest;
To face the demagogues
Then put them to the test.

We stopped wearing uniforms
That said we went along
With the hard-assed leaders.
We put a lot of it in our songs.
We called them what they were
Greedy warmongering ******.
We protested and picketed
And promised so much more.

We spoke out loudly on TV
And in crowds in the streets
That we were through will genocide
And would not accept defeat.
We cried out that our government
Had assumed the role of villain
And was murdering for no reason
Not just men, but even children.

But, we let it all die down;
We let the government slide
On investigating the truth
And keeping the truth inside
A carefully chosen batch of
Criminals in public office.
We let them go on making war
And making money off us.

We let them cheat and lie
And re-write acceptable laws
To support their bloodthirstiness
And we gave up on our cause.
Maybe all that protesting gave
All our marching feet limps.
Or maybe it’s because all along
We were just a bunch of wimps.

Remember when you told me you forgot your middle name.
And that you didn't remember if you even had one.
That your parents weren't particularly religious; that they forgot God.
And that you've been forgetful lately.
You couldn't
remember
the last time you picked flowers.
Or a president.
Or shot a gun.
Or put a flower in a gun.
And that Vietnam was like Iraq.
And France would bring WWIII.
"What's my middle name?"
You asked.
"Where's the Middle East?"

"Didn't the nukes dropped in the Nevada desert sand create glass?"

"How many windows does this room have? Can you see?"

"The eyes are the windows to the soul."

My eyes feel old
Is what my grandmother would say
when she was tired.
She would play solitaire.
After each game she would
shuffle the deck three ways.
I would always mix them up
scattered on the tabletop.
That's what I remember
from the sixties.

You may disagree with what I say
But
Poetry is supposed to have teeth
And if you disagree
That means I win
Because I made you feel something

You may not like my point of view
But
Poetry is a form of expression
A means to protest
Its not for the faint of heart
Its for the strong in thought

And to be true

The greatest poets of all time
Are the most controversial

At least they were in their own time

has been reduced to a mere
facebook status, a tweet, or
a battle of  likes and followers
crumbling, succumbing to
the pressure of creating

something

Theodor and Max would be sad
mad about how i treat my self and
my Art, as industry and enterprise
would use me as a commodity and

the object of Art is objectified