What Works No. 25.


 

“If you go carrying round pictures of Chairman Mao . . .”

 

Some kid came to our bargaining unit,

talked Marx, socialism, lots of bullshit.

We said, listen, man,

we’ll get what we can,

but as for your politics, forget it.

The cold alone

 

 

You are a grinning madness,
standing there in chill moonlight.
Why then so much sadness?

The bottle drained inside a mess,
howling there through sleepless night.
You are a grinning madness.

When these are gone I’ll have some rest,
the cold alone and hidden from sight.
Why then so much sadness?

I must consume drink-drink to dress,
a boy now lowered, cornered in fright.
You are a grinning madness.

Red peaks through the changing crest,
bringing forth the snarled fight.
Why then so much sadness?

You carry off the iron-warm west,
hunting breath lit up as light.
You are a grinning madness.
Why then so much sadness?

Dream on, bourgeois baby 

 

 

By day

the bass player’s

a C.P.A.

 

By morning

the drummer’s

snoring.

 

His nose

is nestled in

her hose,

 

at her calf,

or her shin,

peeled half-

 

way down

her legs, his ten-

sized shoes

 

thrown to the

corner, a playah,

& down he goes.

 

In this town,

4 different bars

host their shows,

 

throw in booze,

tune guitars.

Smiling Mars,

 

The Back-Door,

O’Leary’s, & Ho Ho Ho’s.

& that makes 4.

 

The mixer/

producer/song-writer

was a lawyer.

 

You insist

you’ll let your kids

do this, too,

 

unlike tight 

parents before you,

always right.

 

One guitarist

sells property, stock,

(a capitalist).

 

Unlike you,

he rocks.  They rock.

& you just want to.

 

& his echo,

& his flanger,

each rush to go

 

faster & faster

than his thumb & finger,

& each of them

 

likely knows

more about picking

than he does.

 

This volume

you’re hearing

makes you deaf.

 

You don’t know

a treble from a clef.

You just assume.

 

But I assure you,

at least 1 of you,

in this very venue,

 

swimming in rhythm,

dancing, overcoming blue,

wants to be them.

 

Dance of Tears, Chief Nobody 

 

 

I’m old Indian chief story

plastered on white scattered sheets,

Caucasian paper blowing in yesterday’s winds.

 

I feel white man’s presence

in my blindness-

cross over my ego my borders

urinates over my pride, my boundaries-

I cooperated with him until

death, my blindness.

 

I’m Blackfoot proud, mountain Chief.

 

I roam southern Alberta,

toenails stretch to Montana,

born on Old Man River−

prairie horse’s leftover

buffalo meat in my dreams.

Eighty-seven I lived in a cardboard shack.

My native dress lost, autistic babbling.

I pile up worthless treaties, paper burn white man.

 

Now 94, I prepare myself an ancient pilgrimage,

back to papoose, landscapes turned over.

 

I walk through this death baby steps,

no rush, no fire, nor wind, hair tangled−

earth possessions strapped to my back rawhide−

sun going down, moon going up,

witch hour moonlight.

 

I’m old man slow dying, Chief nobody.

 

An empty bottle of fire-water whiskey

lies on homespun rug,

cut excess from life,

partially smoked homemade cigar-

barely burning,

that dance of tears.

the broken butterfly effect

every time
the front door
slammed hard
which was often
a badly fastened
jesus painting fell
in the living room
revealing a fist hole
in the dry wall