Thursday, October 27, 2011


me and my sweetheart walked hand in hand down the middle of the street in the financial district, looking with slow eyes at each other. we were with about 2000 people, shouting, roaring, drumming, singing, sometimes crying but mostly feeling little fires come on in our bellies. they cleared the cars away like gentlemen - the volunteers in rags and orange armbands, like soldiers, while we our mob lurched and slouched down the street towards bay street. they called out to the bystanders the civilians the proles "come join us!" called out to the windows, almost begged "come join us!" most just stood there, half smiling, confused, one young skinny guy with a smoke dangling out of his mouth stuck his hand out to a streetcar driver who shook it "hey there, sir, i'm an anarchist and i'm out here every day fighting for your freedom and your society and i appreciate the work you do, just remember us" and moving on

at the head was a pickup truck driven by a 300 pound transvestite with blond hair with two gigantic speakers on the flatbed. a microphone dangled over the edge and a row of mohawk elder women sang sacred songs and drummed. these songs, i think, have never been sung in the financial district of any city, and the sound echoed through the streets - a declaration of the coming of the earth, the heart, the spirit - this is a declaration of the coming of the soul to the steel. the wailing and the boom boom boom of the drum like the heartbeat of a giant waking up crawled up the walls of the financial district, reverberated across the hard canyon of steel and glass and money and death. the echoes flew ahead of us down the long streets that were now mostly empty except for us, loping along, crashing into each other, smiling at each other, no violence in anyone's heart but a very serious willingness to go all the way i think, i feel. the flags that waved in front were twinned anarchist and mohawk warrior flags. the powerless are finding each other just when the powerful have begun to push things too far

this revolution or whatever it is has no words. this is its strength and its weakness. it comes from the belly into the world, learning what it is even as it begins to breathe. it is our guts come awake. it is what we always wanted, us becoming in charge of ourselves, us coming together against the nightmare of greed. there is a fear of politics - rightful too - because politics is so dirty and crazy. but that fear is only true if it is a fear of meaningless politics - heartless politics, ruthless politics, ideological politics. but if you run from your brothers and sisters when they are sincere, then your fear is unfounded, will sour into apathy, and you will miss a rare chance to feel part of a real justice on this wild earth

they won't let it stand, be sure of that. the cruel and the selfish always play this game better than we do. but we can be part of something that is better than that, in our heart of hearts we can know our lives meant something. but we have to believe in each other for any of this to mean anything

Thursday, October 20, 2011

everything you'll never know

if i cross the streets of downtown again i will wonder where they all are. a million faces going blank looking as if nothing beautiful lived but all that mattered was the great dreamless sleep of the roads, crawling and growing into the forests. its those types what make the world go round, what make the roads crawl. i wondering down the street, the cut up sky, the bad world out of the daylight. everyone always seems to be hiding so much more than what they are, the aortas of survival are in not feeling what you feel but feeling what you want to look like you feel.

they met their tricks, their dealers and their cops here, there they smashed his head against the tiles, there they were hungry and homeless and broke, on this spot they broke up, met up, forgot their parents, talked of tattoos and mutual hatreds. whole civilizations of junkies go on in hiding, there are crumbling sphinxes being turned into condominiums down the main drag.

masters of self-destruction, their each day was still like a great poetry that would make nirvana blush. it seems i knew so little about them, and i don't think anyone knew most of anything about them, their old days secrets they were wishing to make clear on their faces, which they did sometimes in scars. but no one ever understood the scars, least of all the little magicians that put them there.

and what about me? i always knew i was mortal. i always took the buddha seriously for saying that knowing you are going to die, how can you quarrel? for as long as i can remember, i felt with precision how lonely everyone really is, how they couldn't handle the warmth of each other even if they wanted to, and they didn't want to. the pricks rule the world, and as the great madman himself said, it is hard for thee to kick against the pricks. but i learned you could give parts of yourself if you always had a place to escape to. some put a sign up that says god. some just have kids.

i myself found the wind. it sounds like everything i'll never know.

so i left that back in the city. its what the city does. a few dozen poets who don't know it, but the ones who do know it usually get paid and it makes them ugly. i remember a lot of angels, unnoticed among a million blank faces, going about the business of building a world of roads that will carry the city into the last remaining forests of this world.