Proletarian Literature

 

 

 

It is in our lives, and the fields of grass we walk

Through going home, the encayon’d footpath

Of forgetting, bank or ledge, the smell of money

Leading us on in intangible rage, the transposition

Of sounds of a poem for a landscape, it is sage, the more

Making gray of, in our bodies, little class struggles

We aim to be Czelaw not Ivan and it is winter

In El Escorial, the murals alive with our dying

Everyday, we go there, make notes and paintings, 

Try to preserve a memory of illumination for the next

Doomed century, living rock, the rock by which

The moon turns round and round and makes us keen 

For no reason, and for reason, that we are

So hot for it, winding the clock to make a dead guy

A living doll, my Little Andropov, a crimson robe 

To strip from Aragon our poesies, I will tell Anna,

We lived our lives as best we could, potato water and 

Lilac bread, it was spring sometimes and through

The bars I saw a donkey get off its haunches 

And die heaving forward, the men were indifferent,

The women gray and broad, flower print dresses

Like a sack to hide the money, we should’ve taken

The ledge, our footing was unstable, 

Everywhere we looked, another to drag us down 

In forgetting, the smell of sage, marked men 

And women with their daisies all about the rifle barrels, 

The bloom of them in our books, and in our bodies.220 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Captain’s Blog

 

 

 

Lo! the west wind trip tick recrudescence

gets tiresome, have I told you how weary

web-support feels, the waiters, the drones?

They weren’t even a band back then

before electricity, the simple insect

to its flower. But I get behind myself,

what’s always “the person” who invents 

uneasy departures, etiology, as if 

foster care, genetics, or being left in a car 

in Switzerland. Everyone else got to go

to the chocolate factory, and you get

a funny feeling when in Russia,

why, even the state of mind which is not

a word stood for Breshnev blowing town

in a silver Mercedes heading for

the dacha. It isn’t that far from

Dacchau. To go in for a glib distinction

is always so fraught with destruction.

Too much time poring over the family

photographs, you’re in there mugging

for the authorities, and it becomes 

a profligate slide. Even if hope,

self-involvement, pride, the aspected liver.

At six I remember lonely grass growing

on Hitler’s bunker. At ten, the skeletal frame

of a drowned Viking ship, perpetual need to fight

the effects of oxygen, breathing calmly

is hard with an M-80 in your hand. After

puberty, first blood, a head full of Ash- 

bury toxins, porosity being strange abilities 

to b-b-be all at once. No turning back the clock.

Horizons do what they must, projecting

an image of progress. You sip and sip

a schooner, sail again, wait for the band

to get back from break, mold tiny gears

from napkins, the lift of a Paul Klee machine.

“Not bad, not bad…but can you build it?

 

 

 

 

 

 

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