Blue Declaration Come look at these bodies once filled with dreams, young bodies sprawled broken, blood pooling in oil, flames & black smoke everywhere. See the frantic actions of the hysterical mass—an ant-pile kicked by an amused child. Listen to the noise: bursts of automatic weapons, roaring fires whipped by wind, explosions, shouts, panicked screams, lamenting wails & moans. Look again, my friends, & try to imagine the smells (fighting the urge to vomit) or not being able to imagine—your brains blown out of your skull—jaw & chin forming a fractured chalice. No, we don't want to think about that, but we see what war has orchestrated & accomplished. It’s not about freedom, so don’t say it is. Be honest. You know what it’s about. It’s about money. It’s about power. It’s about control through fear. Yes, it's about death. Clearly it’s about creating chaos & confusion. It's about keeping people afraid, unsure, on edge & insecure, so they’ll listen, do what they’re told. It’s about not thinking & following orders from deceivers-passed-off- as-leaders. It’s about being a team player on a sinking ship, the Empire Builder, that’s taking on water in the servants' quarters while first class is partying on deck. It’s about doing a job, being a good cog cranking the bullshit machine while above officers stand guard over Big Wheels napping in the sun, the ones the cogs believe someday they'll be if they keep toeing the line & saving their dimes, keep oiling, keep grinding away, hands on their hearts, pledging breath to the rockets' red scare as ceremonial troops march along singing this song: Oh, say can you see in the setting sun the naked children running down the street, little flames, tiny torches—the price of freedom—in the twilight's last gleaming.
A poem from Sister Buffalo, 2024.
The following is an excerpt from a work in the works: Podunk No Horse, a poetry laced ramble on the Gibbo train, a rediscovery of undiscovered memory circles.
My old man hated that phony fucking bandwagon hypocrisy. That nationalist fervor he recognized from all nations trying to justify killing the same kind of working class people who'd been conned into dying for some kind of business venture, some rhetorical mumbo-jumbo trod out to make them feel like they were doing the right thing. The Nazis had perfected it. Murder becomes easier the second time and easier the third and so on . . . until the day when you can't quit because you love it and you realize the lives you've ruined, the blood on your hands, and you decide you can't go on. My Old Man knew it was wrong to put people in that situation, that the decision to go to war was giving in to insanity and condemning you citizens to mass murder and conspiracy to commit mass murder. If Hitler would have just stayed at home or stopped with Poland, not invited the wrath of all the countries he tried to dominate, he may have settled into a quiet, German genocide, more like Cambodia, Rhuwada, China, Russia, or America did. Yes, we shan't forget about our own bloody mission to annihilate the Native Americans and those slaves who caused any problems (or not). That's the Amerikan reality for “certain” citizens. I guess I'm getting in it a little deep. We'll blame that on my Old Man, too, before we return to the old stomping grounds.
But there is nowhere to go to get away from yourself where you are always confronted by what's in your face, and politics, justice has always been in my face, a gift from my dad that will not be ignored. So what have I done besides write a few poems? Not much. My father wanted me to become a lawyer and do something significant to help the helpless, be another Clarence Darrow. I had the passion but not the fortitude. It seemed like poetry stand-up was more my game, entertainment, make em laugh and cry at their pain.
*
SOUVENIR Dad's .22 rifle leaned in the corner of the pantry behind the hot water heater, an oiled cotton wad plugged the end of the barrel. The big crock usually held elderberry, chokecherry, or dandelion wine, sometimes sauerkraut or homemade root beer. There was a cubbyhole door that opened onto the kitchen counter. It worked perfect for ordering groceries when we played store. The pantry shelves were stocked like a mercantile: canned goods, cracker boxes, pots & pans, a shoe shine kit, bottle capper and pressure cooker. When I stood on the Gold Medal flour can, I could reach the top shelf where the Nazi dagger lay beside a cigar box filled with foreign coins -- mementos my dad had brought back from the war. We used those relics as our cash register to play store: one can of Van Camps pork & beans might go for two Caesar coins, three Augustus, or one Queen Wilhelmina. Discus shaped, the size of quarters & dimes, they were cracked and split on the edges. I was a grocer before I mowed lawns or shoveled snow; sold my dad his cribbage board, the fifth of Old Crow; sold my mother her iron and laundry baskets; sold my brother the hone to sharpen his bone-handled hunting knife. I memorized the items I could sell: turpentine, iodine, boot grease, glue, rat poison, matches, and string. Candles & light bulbs. 3-in-1 Oil. Jars of washers & buttons & screws. When no one was home, I'd sneak down the dagger my dad lifted from a German corpse, wrap my hand around the hilt and squeeze. That grip fit perfect. Etched Ulles fur Deutschland, the stainless blade flashed my reflection when I stabbed the air. The cruel beauty smelled tinny like those Roman coins, the way blood tastes in your mouth. Rubbing my thumb over the emblem on the handle, an eagle perched on a swastika, it made me sad to think about war, the soldier who carried this knife, my dad drowning . . . unable to let go.
*
So the politics of power
forced its way into my world
in high school. Everywhere
I turned there was some institution
grappling to maintain control
over tried and true policies
that kept the status quo
in charge of protecting power.
They didn't want to let go.
From sports to school
dress codes, they insisted
everyone dance to their tune,
the battle hymn of their republic.
But their war which wasn't
a “declared war” was going south
on them, and the kids got bolder
in their obstruction, their protests.
The next in their slowly sinking
leaky boat was a cannon ball hole
in the bow, Kent State. No amount
of rhetoric, nothing would ever be
the same. They could kill Black
Panthers, they could club hippies
in the streets, but shooting white
college kids walking across campus
with arm-loads of books sparked
a new brand kind of patriotism.
*
And we found a few lessons for ourselves, too, discovered we weren't exempt from passing judgment. Most of us suffer from sins of omission, the easy way out, and those decisions that haunt us sometimes the rest of our days. If you try to keep an eye on yourself, hold yourself accountable for your sins and your blindnesses, you have more than enough to handle without policing everybody else. And it's a lot easier living in seclusion, out in the sticks, to keep focused on your own behavior. But when you get out of Podunk-Dodge-Mayberry and go to the city, any Naked City, you'll find more than you can imagine. I spent a week or so in Chicago riding public transit to check out the town. Dream on, Horatio. King Hamlet's ghost walks inside you and me.
The Red Line He begged, pleaded to the packed “L” train for anything anyone could give to help him buy the antibiotics he needed for an infected leg he pulled up his pants to reveal, but no one looked at him or the wound save me. All seemed steeled, numbed by his humble confession and grotesquely swollen limb, like it was just another ruse or plea they couldn't afford or decode. Twenty-two bucks was all he needed. His posture, the exhausted expression in his voice and eyes apologized for having to ask this way, play the beggar to others barely paying their fares, but he didn't know where else to turn or what to do. He dropped his head and said he understood why they couldn't, wouldn't help or acknowledge him. He knew they were conned for cash every day, but still he had to ask because he had nothing to lose but his leg—his pride gone miles ago. The commuters were used to this scene I hadn't witnessed before, a street theater performance surely worthy of a fifty dollar seat in some balcony of fine art uptown. A country bumpkin, I was sold— but warned off by my sons and the silence of those around me. The beggar finally moved on to the next car, left us suffering another crisis of conscience, a daily practice navigating this sea of humanity, adrift in one's own devices, bodies floating by face down. We keep on moving, working, scrolling along @ #livingtheAmericanDream.
*
My old man and most of the men I knew growing up, those young
Americans hardened by the Depression and World War II,
would be coming unglued at the state of the union
(they'd already seen the decline of the unions
by the time they'd retired). This fucking rich boy parading
around like he knows more than anyone about everything and not
getting the shit kicked out of him because of that
insulated privilege only the rich and their hired goons have.
But that alone, the mere presence of an untouchable
blowhard asshole like Donnyboy, would not surprise them.
He's a character as old as story and humanity.
What would send them into a deep and very great
depression, would be the ignorance and dis-compassion
of their neighbors, their fellow citizens putting on
the shoes of the good Germans who let this happen
less than one hundred years ago. Actually,
My Old Man wouldn't be surprised.
Humanity depressed the Hell out of him.
He was Irish, for Christ's sake. He had little faith
in human institutions like governments or the church.
He knew they were only as good as the people involved,
and he had been involved with too many of those people involved.
Power corrupts, and absolute power (pray for us
now in the hour of our death) corrupts absoludicrously.
Color a cowboy hat on Nero! Add a Hitler mustache to Trump’s smug mug! Giddy-up!
Buffalo Trump
—an eecummings ripoff in three acts
I.
the 21st century
icon for greedhead CHUMP
propaganda
posterboypinup the clownfounding bereavement
of twitterpated memes
goosestepping bluemold snakeskin cream
crawls claws fingerflicking-squints (PAUSE
)okay
seems so soveryvery sad
reallyreally SAD no very very
HUGE(bigger(est)ly) sad-das
II.
OrwellianRockwell roosterlikes newslikes
bitterpills like opiatedreams
okay(
NO so go) yes
(k)no(w)nothing whitesheets
(un)k(kk)now(i)n
bloodyrags inthestreets
another funeral notch
in the belt of the bloated
DEBAUCHED
apprentice of
the sayitagain(amen)amerikan SCHEME
(apocalypse) mean(ing)
III.
abort(ion) gimmethat-oldtimey HYPOCRACY
(notagainSam!) pay no attention
to the greatandpowerful APPLAUSE-SIGN
WATCH the dreambe prince COUNT
the digital
STORM
the dark shadows
lonelytower shelters(not) pickpocket-
(k)ing thenaked(dis)rob(b)ed
thing &/in peacetrains-bringingblack
back&forth(e)
termin(h)ate END(skin)s
A poem from Sister Buffalo, 2024.
*
So why go on? Some kind of acknowledgment
of the fact that we are here and have no idea
about anything. What we have discovered
only confirms how little we really know, so
the act of suicide seems a bit presumptuous,
doesn't it? I mean the act of choosing to end this life
because of meaninglessness. Our emotions work
to keep us here, the feelings of connection,
what we call love. Once we lose that part
of our experience, we are halfway out the door.
We become untethered, feel isolated, apart.
The simple recognition that we are a part of the whole,
whatever-the-fuck that is, goes a long way
to creating appreciation and peace, allowing us
to keep searching and accepting our ignorance.
I'll be your huckleberry, that Tombstone line
Val Kilmer delivers as Doc Holiday,
standing up to the bully, the gunslinger
who goes up against rubes and weaklings.
Like Holiday and most of those tough-guy
American heroes of cinema, I detested bullies
growing up, and that shit doesn't leave you.
Bullies of all kinds warrant our objections,
and luckily I still have my front teeth.
Bullies I can’t abide a bully, it’s the one thing I refuse To ignore. No one has the right To push someone else around. No one should Be allowed to do that to anyone anymore, Especially the defenseless: animals, children, The disabled, the old. What kind of miserable asshole Does that? Most likely the poor bastards have been bullied. Abuse is passed along. The truth is: bullies Are cowards, sad sons of bitches, Which is all the more reason to call them out. If not for their own sake, to stop the madness. What we have to do is tell them NO, Tell them to STOP, and if they don’t, Which they probably won’t, they must be confronted, Faced down, forced to taste their own fear. And if necessary rub their noses in it.
*
Peace
Mark, this latest offering is packed with so much of value that it is impossible (for me) to give it the review it deserves. However, I do have 2 bits to put on the table: 1) concerning finding a path in the sea of madness, I remember and pass forward this from Joseph Campbell - "Joyful participation in the sorrows of life", and 2) re the poem Bullies, I strongly identify with this and it complicates the issue of capitulating to the abuse of the Military-Industrial Complex vs taking down the Bully (bullies come in various sizes). I'm grateful you chose poetry over law, etc, and I continue to benefit from and enjoy your industry. Slainte!
A shit show without an intermission. Wantabe DT Buffoon again is in the race. DT poison to fill the jack boots goose-stepping red flag waving witless whining draft buy out without honor or integrality, and it's selling on the market. It's beyond sad or pathetic words. It's on the edge of the abyss. A pit possibly too deep to crawl out of. But my hearts thumping, not with fear. Human life spans are short for good reason.