shepard fairey

ras

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gustav dore

our boys

death and burial

wm

Thursday, December 27, 2007

Some Days


saunter right up like they’re going to speak
before shearing away, cut against my edge

I’m a mite shorter now
‘fore I started whittlin’

still it can’t be found

what the hell
kiss me sweets

I’m a man
no more

let’s follow this one down, let’s sneak out
in a dawn of smoke and mist
hold my hand

my eyes are closing


Macrobiotic Methods


obviously are best, but a bit clean for my pride in
recoveries from serious twistings. Barely bruised, I ain’t
showing nothing, life goes on. Just the other day I was saying to

my mate, cher, my love--best o' my hopes o' being good—-lead on,
sugar. I’m right on your tail. So to speak. But,

now you mention it, we’re a pair for drowning, hey,
or dragging through centuries of rot and ruin to get
up here in each other’s arms on such a morning.


I Wasn’t Buying


the standard line about the fish being shot; it seemed even
if all hope was silly, it didn’t matter. How could anything be,
except: just as it all is? One way, Jose. That said, wrap me up,

baby, take me up in your chariot, let’s head to light.

I was out the other day, a bit keen inside, eating away at
what ain’t much left; at the wind rising I still thrill,
tip to toe; it’s about as good as can be. Well,

we’ll see.


Thursday, December 6, 2007

A Feeling Of Brief Mortality


So long, Howling Wolf; goodbye to all that
was the only word. I felt it when you popped
back to the surface like an eardrum going out
into air. The way when we gathered
at night, the stars would sneak right up
behind us. What’s passed can’t come any
closer. At least we’ve got this.


A Sea Of Terror


was pouring me over. Languorously, it filled my passages,
making spillways of memories, all the while pulling me down
onto something like you. Something like me

can’t be sure of an awful lot. Little stands long.
A few of the citizenry came out for my extolling.

No one I knew or recognized showed, but it was nice to
give them somewhere to go. I certainly had nothing
pressing now. I should do something about that drip.


Mounting Calgary


Christ, could I get some slack? On my right
my noble friend writhes for no more than
insurance—should I not last the price of
a ticket. Representing the left-hand path
and similarly strung here at Eve’s rib’s side,
and symbolically offered in payment for my
own murder, a mere hapless and utterly
claimless passerby. Black Maggie labored
into full dark of a second day to tattoo
across my smashed insteps a number
where she could be reached, were it to
come soon. And that gal’s got prospects.


Chilling


how just when you get traction, you slip
and go down hard, wincing mostly at

the stab of being old; what’d happened?
This epic tale has nothing to offer me, I

died being born and I've been trying to
come back ever since; I don’t see a choice.

Nevertheless, now and then, you get a moment.
Often enough to keep you panting for it.

Any of it;

what could be said was beautiful and had
great heart for having nerve to try.


Monday, December 3, 2007

Different Worlds


different suns. Last night Andromeda was splayed
pole to pole. I’d taken a bottle on deck, and somewhere
around Antares, I sunk deep inside and lost all sense of

having been committed. I could barely remember
what was important. What was? I’d been asking since.

Bit and pieces, mostly, here and there
you break a tooth on bone. But it's
never soft enough from here for me,

tonight or any.


This Land Is Condemned


but not doomed. That fate lies in our laps.
What fresh wind seeks to scour us of our sins,

this time for the ages, which, depending on who’s talking
may have been some considerable time. Minions,

age and death, and the whole round of holy gods
cavorting like fauns, bold before our witherings.

A few score among us were rife with it.
You could spit on the rest.


Eat This Aphorism


The peasants are hungry
for inspiration.

Last night we crossed Van Diemen’s;
tonight we take Berlin.

The world today is not new.
O, stale sky, pearl!

The Man turned out to be so much
less than his mate.

Balkan countries and Russia
have awesome new energy. Goodbye,

west imperialists, swine,
pederasts, thieves;

we all lined up for Lenten.
Jesus didn’t die

for Patti Smith’s sins,
but for mine. Which

I didn’t mind
in the least, by the way.

I’d had a gut full o’ both o’
them sissies.


Another Chapter


unfurled; He reached for her. It didn’t matter.
Nothing could die. They’d just keep going.
Forward. In a word. The problem actually
is in finding a word to suit the situation.
Some problem. O well, it has been suggested
in some quarters that even this
is not enough! Baby!