"bloc" poems
a ****** of crows gathers
over Hamburg, carrion carrying on
with business as usual.
feeding on the festered flesh
of a gentrified populace.
in private jets coughing carbon
they fly from the west on turbine wings,
engines screaming as they dive towards a nation
secured by razor-wound walls
and barb-wire borders.
they pitched a battle in Germany,
convinced that austerity
would ******* the resistance
and give justification to premeditated violence.
but the tables have turned on the thieves again.
we are the end result of your failed policies,
globalization has destroyed our homes.
if your cabal rallies like a kettle of vultures,
you will do so behind closed doors,
cowering in your fortress' halls.
you shall not pass. watch as the power shifts
like the melting gears of torched BMWs.
we will tear the vestiges of your authority down.
we will black out your surveillance cameras,
smash your windows, and block your limos. no pasaran.
flee, while you can still run. this city belongs
to the wild ones, a black bloc, thousands strong,
dancing amidst the tear gas, tossing molotovs.
marching to liberty's sturdy drum,
equal in our solidarity song.
Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 12:14 PM UTC
There was a homeless lady,
one afternoon, outside the hospital.
Was she homeless? I don’t know.
She had a ladened shopping cart,
which, on TV, is kind of a signature.
We were inside, waiting for an Uber.
She was outside, in chiaroscuro relief.
Dressed in bright, multilayered, mismatched
florals and brocades, she reminded me
of a gypsy. There are still gypsy caravans
in France. Are there gypsies in America?
She wore boots and long strings of beaded jewelry.
They would have had to have been glass, I supposed,
but tinseled with the glitter of those pop spangles,
she looked, en bloc, the richest and the poorest of us.
She wasn’t young and she wasn’t old. She sat alone,
on a short retaining wall, her cart within guarded reach.
I noticed her because every time I glanced over, she
was watching me with the dark unblinking eyes of a bird.
She had an easy confidence, in the wild, sitting safe
and protected by her clam, obstinate shell of boredom.
What must I look like to her - with her tangled hair
and unwashed face? Me in my permanent pressed
hospital wear, diminished by over-washing. A doll
behind glass, whose whole life is patterned by plans?
Our Uber pulled up, the number matched and as Lisa
opened the car door, I gathered my things and looked
back but the gypsy lady was gone, leaving a blank space.
Jun 11, 2023
Jun 11, 2023 at 10:29 PM UTC
when you only
see the world
through the prism
of an Instagram filter,
the spectrum's
overshadowed
by black and white
vignettes.
brick-by-brick
you build that wall
around yourself,
closed off to the plight
of every one else.
who needs borders
when you refuse to see
beyond the periphery
of your iPhone's screen?
refugees? border patrol?
endless war?
merely fragmentary
snapshots
in off-kilter
snapchats
casting grim light
on contemporary
outcasts, rebels
built to outlast
the vitriol leveled
at modern-day martyrs
by tyrants and overlords.
'cause when you neglect
to read the passages
of history, you scapegoat
the brave, can't see
the forest for the trees,
reduce the complex
to Manichean binaries
of Good vs. Evil,
Left vs. Right,
an infinite etcetera
of demagoguery.
noses glued
to illuminated screens,
ignoring the visionaries
for illusionary fantasies:
one-click—purchased
happiness, bread
and circus.
advertising
has us chasing
a feeling fleeting
as a riptide when we
ought to be rallying
on the front lines,
punching Nazis.
a black bloc
tossing bricks into
storefront windows.
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 12:46 AM UTC
the donkeys bray
and panic
when bricks
fly through
bank windows.
gobsmacked,
the ***** ogle
the trashed Starbucks
and ask,
"but...who will serve us
cappuccinos?"
the elephants intone,
"violence is never the answer"
and neglect to add
that's why they pilot
remote-operated
predator drones:
you won't see those stomped
in the elephants' stampede.
their ***** wars are covert.
peace cannot interrupt
the cash-flow.
as pigs fit armor over
bellies buttressed
by doughnuts,
they stare down
the wolf pack—a bloc
awash in black—
and slap their sticks
in primitive percussion
shouting, "do not resist,"
punctuating the order
with concussion grenades
and tear gas.
the wolves howl back, "no cops,
no KKK, no fascist USA!"
equal parts bark and bite
in the fight for humanity,
solidarity with the least of these,
laughing in the face of the State.
each time the wolves show their teeth,
the pigs shrink back
and quiver in fear,
while the wolves roar,
"refugees are welcome here!"
we will make racists
afraid again.
antifa, here to stay
so long as there remain
Nazis to punch in the face.
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 9:25 PM UTC
rows of two!-three!-four!-boys-bloc-king-the-cor-rid-or
will soon be gone
and the RHYTH-mic-tick-tock-of-my-leg-BOUN-cing-on-the-floor
will be no more
it's fresh cadavers wrapped in string
it is a joyful gospel hymn
mourning the best and worst of youth
(those shiny kids who'd first walked in
with all the grace and all the poise
of hatched arachnids missing limbs)
but what of "her" – you know her name –
that overfed, reptilian thing
who shed her hair and scratched her skin,
cursing the odds at Him upstairs, demanding He re-shape her?
some say she cried herself into extinction
– sailed away on a crimson tide –
balking at the trauma of being seen
(enforced, cursed vulnerability
in being known to man).
the rest knew better;
they were voyeurs in this
fruit-carving tutorial
on 'how to grow up':
STEP 1) consider all other alternatives
2) take the scalpel and initiative
3) before adrenaline gives way to doubt,
turn the flesh-vessel inside out in a cocoon of your own creation!
while organs may rupture and it aches like you've skinned yourself alive (good for her, setting herself free!) you'll look cuter in the class photos and has you-know-who... finally... shifted the weight?
4) breathe through the blood loss and searing pain
5) notice
you
can
breathe again.
at this point, does it matter that it aches?
May 10, 2019
May 10, 2019 at 9:50 AM UTC
In Randy Pausch’s last lecture there is space
Left briefly to be occupied en bloc-
The space that will exist, lacking, always,
In substance like quarry in a hillock.
You imagine a quarry filled with dark space
Stand on the rim of the hole that exists
In presence of time and absence of space.
Follow the last lecture to clear its mists.
You don’t get into his circle really
Of an inspiring cancer death suffering
The circle of dark humour surreally
But as a tangent on its outer ring.
Stand on the rim and into the dark lean
Strain eyes to see own reflection keen.
Feb 10, 2011
Feb 10, 2011 at 7:01 AM UTC
I arrived at my station in Kaliningrad
as if posted there by an army of desires
entering through the gate with a firm set jaw
into the guarding teeth of iron girders
driven into the soft soul of the soil
by hammering heels as bold as yours
approaching a fateful encounter quite naughty
amidst ghosts in an Eastern European night
its sights built when all roads led to Königsberg city
taking pretty daughters of frightening Prussian knights
to a military parade past the rust of heavy industry
a call to arms wrapped tight up against youthful skin
dark forces dressed in lace trimmed girdles of passion
its secret codes covered by accents slightly Russian
sounding like love slipping into a cold war assignation
you were too beautiful by half
too perfect to wear jeans
so like the uniform concrete paths
abandoned to such ghastly stains
they attract me like works of art
that someone envious of being outlasted
had to spray with swirling tattoo paint
yet the matt camouflage fades fast
while your beauty is chiseled into my days
its ageless gloss defying the wind and dust
whipping across the wonderful blocks called home
built by socialist bloc labourers whose ***** hands
must have toiled for the day you were born
and set free the naked ambition of men that yearn
for a dessert of finely moulded vision
beyond the blue vein cheese and a little wine
into warm baths steaming away the tension
which had crossed our paths with precise chains
snapped together in a demand for attention
“stop - no tourism beyond here after 5pm”
but you knew diversions locked in 'till round 2am
a stress release submitting to the pull of a comforter
gentle in the peace of the goose-down we slept in
the softness of the rattles
the worst
of your corrupters
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 9:18 PM UTC
Your brain is plugged and foggy;
Your mind is on the freaking fritz;
The poetry is lost and boggy;
You hold your pen in woolen mitts.
Try a senryu about your life
Or a haiku on the froggy pond;
Cut through bloc de l'auter with a knife,
And slog out of the slough, Despond.
Sometimes it helps to focus long
On a single spot on the wall of life
And see what image comes along...
(I like to think of my pretty wife).
This writer's block's a funny thing
Tied somehow to the lives we lead,
And sterile writers need a fling
To let their stubborn poems breed.
So walk a while, or take a Jeep;
Visit the county fair...
Milk a cow or shear a sheep;
Wear flowers in your hair.
Or be like me and go take a nap;
Read a good book, or call an old friend;
Some poems are babies not yet in the lap,
Developing elsewhere, somewhere in the When....
Be sure they'll show up when they're ready to shine;
They'll trip off your fingers; they'll flow like red wine;
They'll sparkle or spark, or they'll whimper and cry,
But your poems will arrive, and I'm telling no lie.
Be patient, Good Allys..., the block's not an end,
Your poems are waiting ahead, 'round the bend.
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 11:36 AM UTC
We’ve got sweat-slicked brows, tuffs of loose, knotted hair
Our limbs dumbly droop and we stand on the roof
Of a three story flat up in Prenzlauerberg
Near five a.m. when the night’s at its end
When we shuffle our shoes and sometimes tip the *****
From the bottles that we’ve all left scattered around
Then the beer trickles down and it spreads on the ground
And turns the rooftop tar a shimmering black
I feel through my shirt the thick summer heat
The hairs on my arm, the trees in the street
Are bathing alike in a warm morning dew
And the cigarette smoke we let slip from our throats
Catches the first red rays as the sun shows its face
Through the chemical haze out in east Lichtenberg
We face the source of the light as it floods through Berlin
Not the city we know in this tangerine glow
In this rich warming shine that is washing our eyes
Black industrial pipes start to wiggle and writhe
And their steam hits the scaffolds, whose
Metal fingers grow limber as they stretch through the street
To shake the red trees from their lumbering sleep
Then the leaves that they drop start to flee and get caught
In the stares of facades in the communist bloc
With the refusal of death on their hot, heaving breath
The parks are all built out of paper and gold
With fountains that spew streams of molten stone
Our apartment stands firm in the boiling sea
Of the scars of old days which swell, throbbing like waves
It’s the city lain out, moving, alive, and just like that
A light, filmy rain sprays a sheet on the town
We try to claw it away, but the curtain stays down
Then we stir, soaked in the sun and the rain
It’s the start of the day
And we can go home to sleep and dream of sunlit Berlin
Feb 1, 2010
Feb 1, 2010 at 9:08 PM UTC
Uniform- Bloc Party
"There was a sinking disappointment as we left the mall-- all the young people looked the same"
Bought for a Song
All we could ever buy was bought by someone from something
An apparatus of production so maniacal; how could we know
what made our fingers bleed?
It was the sewing and the apprehension our hands holding string
we sat down in the factory but shortly stood up to sing
something forced us, past the window, it was still early
our minds returned to our benches our selves were in the seams
and we laughed, when we died, but it was all in jest
we knew someday we'd give our lives so your dog could own a sequined vest.
The Dog
Your dog's a personality, it's so lovely I'm impressed
It looks so jaunty prancing there, alive its sparkling vest.
Now tell me Baps, who made it? However did you find a sequined silver vest to fit on your canine?
It's really rather simple--it's not even that smart
I bought my dog this lovely vest at the giant mart.
The giant mart? How daring! How intriguing, I declare!
It contrasts very vibrantly with his top hat and black hair.
I tell you Baps, he's precious, look at him standing there!
I can imagine him singing show tunes like the late great
Fred Astaire!
"Yeah, you're right" Baps said, the conversation lingered there.
And I'd like to say what else was said, but frankly I don't care.
I hate these bitches' feelings, I don't resemble Fred Astaire.
I wish they take these things off of me.
Dogs don't wear underwear.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 12:07 AM UTC
Harmless showery harming
Drove of peddling mongers.
Harmless harming torrent
Harming horde of hucksters.
Humming a melody of venting
distraction.
Pouring brimful harmless rain
like glacier racing across the
cliff of rocks.
Shutting doors of coop out of
the sphere of ataraxis.
Watching helplessly from the
refuge of dislocation for
receding arms of a
tyrannical torrent.
But spitting fire produced no
venom of fire.
Heralding floods of occupation
Colonising footway of the bloc.
Emissaries of fertility from the
sky hoarding tranquillity.
Marking time out of attention.
Rain no more !
Jan 27, 2019
Jan 27, 2019 at 1:18 PM UTC
Heavy black clouds
darken the entire sky
an imposing dictator
now rules the horizons
pertinent
petulant
grinning
seditious clouds
mercilessly grinding
devouring
cotton candy clouds
silky satin clouds.
Bright heady clouds
now smothered, abused
all conceding
they themselves are
now transformed
en bloc!
oh great one
allow me to intercede
so all bow low below
Allow me to bellow
Wasteful wistful wisps
Of white fluffy bits into –
A war cloud!
One that gets respect
A heavy dark full-bloodied cloud
Into a real cloud
A cloud to die for
So gallant brave foot soldiers
beat the war drums with
whittled willow sticks
thunder-bolt strikes that
invoke the terrain spirits
alert the earth sprites
enlighten all mankind
so sombre September skies may
weep woefully
for all the living,
the departed, too.
.
lightning strikes
faces flash-overed
frying
flesh fresh
weeping
unpeeling crawling
exposing
feeble fibia bones
splendid rip raw effect
lightning sheets that reflect
vivid vibrant violence
inflicted on hapless victims.
Therefore ... I propose
simply do not court disaster
Serve but one Lord and Master
Oh menial lowly caste civil clouds
Pay homage to your Ruler
Recognize and realize –
CUMULONIMBUS!
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 11:09 PM UTC
We call it the Bloc
Aint free to live our lives
the streets steady patrolled
by the cops
living in the clouds
Wiz Kahlifa dreams
this is a duck hunt
prepared to get shot
every day children's names
forever lost.
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 7:31 PM UTC
- What are you doing here?
- I wanted to see a writer at work.
(So
you came
to watch me
stare at empty spaces
the empty promises I keep
breaking to myself.
So
many days
hidden in a blank page
until I run away again
hoping and pretending
I’ll find myself somewhere
to fill a page.
So…)
- What am I doing here?
- You wanted to be a writer at work.
Dec 2, 2010
Dec 2, 2010 at 1:30 AM UTC
There is a blockage of ink
It forms a clot
Which gets thicker and thicker
Until my heart stops
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 2:00 PM UTC
A lady stares blankly ahead:
Ignoring everything in her stead,
Inhaling the adulterated room air,
Taciturn, stiff, certain, or maybe scared.
Still as a rock –
Calm as a lake –
Strong as a dock –
But those are all fake.
Inside her, a war is waging.
Beasts, monsters, and heroes –
all fighting.
For the longest time,
Her mind has been running wild.
Her clock is ticking
Yet no one is winning.
Not one bloc is determined to fall
Because all she does is feed them all.
/pc
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 9:37 AM UTC
the first time i choked on tear-gas,
we were standing in the heart of the Empire.
the scent of capsaicin still smarted
as we fished our medic bags for water-bottles
to flush our comrades’ eyes. we did not weep
for the revolt. we were at peace even as we knew,
beyond a shadow of a doubt,
we were ******
the black bloc, three thousand strong,
had raged through the streets of D.C.
overturning dumpsters, torching limos,
taking hammers and crowbars
to Bank of America windows
with gleeful abandon, a sense of endless,
militant joy. it would be
anarchy or annihilation.
the spontaneous insurrection
of the antifascist demonstration
was an inferno hotter than the dumpster-fires
we’d left like signal-flares in our wake.
for a moment, there, we could feel
the ******** quaking as our feet
shook the Earth, stepping
in-and-out of Lovecraftian shadows,
eldritch horrors of doom gloating over us.
but we’d been kettled,
cordoned by cops in riot gear,
cut-off from all possible routes of escape.
faceless phantoms clutching cudgels
to bludgeon our conflagration
into submission. and then
the call came. “this way! this way!
we found an exit!”
immediately, the cops swarmed in,
their momentarily vindictive arrogance
shattered by the freedom that rang
like church-bells in a half-a-hundred voices.
“this way! this way! we found an exit!”
motorcycles turned down the alleyway,
sirens screaming, echoing off the tenement halls
and only one of us possessed the sense to intervene.
for a moment, she stood alone.
a single figure, holding up her hands
and shaking her head, refusing to let
the ******** advance. but courage
is infectious. a moment later,
another joined her, then another,
until all of a sudden a half-a-dozen
of us stood shoulder-to-shoulder, shouting,
“no pasaran! you shall not pass!”
we waited for the billy-clubs to rain
hell upon our shoulders, but still
we remained steadfast, anchored
by the weight of our conviction
and the hope that even if we fell
the rest of the bloc would escape
to wreak havoc another day.
May 31, 2019
May 31, 2019 at 12:33 PM UTC
Strangers stare and question her sanity
although she pleads her case on something else
the bags under her eyes everyday remind you of yourself;
Sunrises were your reluctant goodnight
to a drug fueled night alone again.
Back when your forehead was too big so you cut your bangs yourself.
Back when Bloc Party, no matter the song, brought you to your knees
to plead
and facebook stalking was reasonable considering;
Tell them the honest to goodness truth
it hurts for a while but then you'll love again.
That special someones right under you nose
even as we speak.
Something they never wanted isn't worth the blood sweat and tears,
so breathe babygirl because your second coming is now.
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 5:57 AM UTC
Fable XIII, Livre III.
L'autre hiver, des badauds attroupés dans ma rue
S'extasiaient devant une statue :
C'était la reine de Paphos,
Chef-d'œuvre qu'un artiste échappé du collège
Avait tiré... - D'un marbre de Paros ?
Non, lecteur ; mais d'un tas de neige.
Le ciseau de Chaudet n'aurait pas excité
Plus d'admiration dans la foule ébahie.
« - Voilà ce qui s'appelle une œuvre de génie,
« Un morceau vraiment fait pour la postérité !
« Que cette tête est noble et belle !
« Disaient, en soufflant dans leurs doigts,
« Trois amateurs transis ; l'antiquité, je crois,
« N'a rien à mettre en parallèle.
« - Rien ! dit un antiquaire indigné du propos ;
« Rien ! puis-je entendre un tel blasphème ?
« Rien ! ne craignez-vous point de passer pour des sots ?
« - Des sots ! nous, monsieur ? Sot vous-même,
Si vous n'admirez pas ces formes, ces contours,
« Cette pose à la fois sublime et naturelle,
« Ce sourire où l'on voit se jouer les Amours :
« Non, la Vénus de Praxitèle
« N'est qu'un bloc en comparaison.
« - Qu'un bloc ! » dit l'érudit étouffant de colère,
Comme s'il n'avait pas raison,
« J'espère aux ignorants démontrer le contraire ;
« Je ne veux rien qu'un mois. » Et s'échappant soudain,
Il grimpe à son taudis, s'enferme, prend la plume,
Compulse maint et maint volume,
Cite maint Grec et maint Romain ;
Se fatigue la tête, et plus encor la main.
Que d'encre prodiguée, et que d'encre perdue !
Non qu'au jour dit l'erreur n'eût été confondue,
Et le goût rétabli dans son honneur vengé ;
Mais, tandis qu'il grimpait, le temps avait changé,
Et la Vénus était fondue.
718
Oui, l'oeuvre sort plus belle
D'une forme au travail
Rebelle,
Vers, marbre, onyx, émail.
Point de contraintes fausses !
Mais que pour marcher droit
Tu chausses,
Muse, un cothurne étroit.
Fi du rythme commode,
Comme un soulier trop grand,
Du mode
Que tout pied quitte et prend !
Statuaire, repousse
L'argile que pétrit
Le pouce
Quand flotte ailleurs l'esprit :
Lutte avec le carrare,
Avec le paros dur
Et rare,
Gardiens du contour pur ;
Emprunte à Syracuse
Son bronze où fermement
S'accuse
Le trait fier et charmant ;
D'une main délicate
Poursuis dans un filon
D'agate
Le profil d'Apollon.
Peintre, fuis l'aquarelle,
Et fixe la couleur
Trop frêle
Au four de l'émailleur.
Fais les sirènes bleues,
Tordant de cent façons
Leurs queues,
Les monstres des blasons ;
Dans son nimbe trilobe
La Vierge et son Jésus,
Le globe
Avec la croix dessus.
Tout passe. - L'art robuste
Seul a l'éternité.
Le buste
Survit à la cité.
Et la médaille austère
Que trouve un laboureur
Sous terre
Révèle un empereur.
Les dieux eux-mêmes meurent,
Mais les vers souverains
Demeurent
Plus forts que les airains.
Sculpte, lime, cisèle ;
Que ton rêve flottant
Se scelle
Dans le bloc résistant !
422
At 6 A.M. the day started with an obscure
Eastern Bloc animation of sad animals
finding the spirit of the season through solidarity,
then by running fingers down the listed joys
of the Radio Times
I found it perfectly possible to navigate a day
from a hole in the sofa, subsisting on nuts,
as familiar celebrities made Christmas **** of themselves
Dec 20, 2020
Dec 20, 2020 at 3:56 AM UTC
Nous sommes frères : la fleur
Par deux arts peut être faite.
Le poète est ciseleur ;
Le ciseleur est poète.
Poètes ou ciseleurs,
Par nous l'esprit se révèle.
Nous rendons les bons meilleurs,
Tu rends la beauté plus belle.
Sur son bras ou sur son cou,
Tu fais de tes rêveries,
Statuaire du bijou,
Des palais de pierreries !
Ne dis pas : « Mon art n'est rien... »
Sors de la route tracée,
Ouvrier magicien,
Et mêle à l'or la pensée !
Tous les penseurs, sans chercher
Qui finit ou qui commence,
Sculptent le même rocher :
Ce rocher, c'est l'art immense.
Michel-Ange, grand vieillard,
En larges blocs qu'il nous jette,
Le fait jaillir au hasard ;
Benvenuto nous l'émiette.
Et, devant l'art infini,
Dont jamais la loi ne change,
La miette de Cellini
Vaut le bloc de Michel-Ange.
Tout est grand ; sombre ou vermeil,
Tout feu qui brille est une âme.
L'étoile vaut le soleil ;
L'étincelle vaut la flamme.
Paris, octobre 1841.
312
Un grand bloc de grès ; quatre noms : mon père
Et ma mère et moi, puis mon fils bien ****
Dans l'étroite paix du plat cimetière
Blanc et noir et vert, au long du rempart.
Cinq tables de grès ; le tombeau nu, fruste,
En un carré long, haut d'un mètre et plus,
Qu'une chaîne entoure et décore juste,
Au bas du faubourg qui ne bruit plus.
C'est de là que la trompette de l'ange
Fera se dresser nos corps ranimés
Pour la vie enfin qui jamais ne change,
Ô vous, père et mère et fils bien-aimés.
259