Easy Targets

The Nazis
Did not leave
Did not die
The Nazis
Were normal
And what is normal
Never dies
They were only doing
What everyone else did
As you and I
Only do
What everyone else does
Their economy was bad
Their hate was not hidden
There was never a question
Of them not killing
The question was
Which of their own
Would they disown?
The Jews
Were easy targets
The Germans were
A hateful people
As we are
A hateful people
They had built
Their own violent culture
As we have built
Ours
They could not solve their problems
So they renamed them
Called humans animals
We cage ours
In ghettos
And hope they kill
Each other
But in case they don’t
We’ve made our homes
Into cages
And we’ve bought machines
To entertain us
So we rarely have to go outside
And for those
Times when we do
We teach our children
Not to talk to strangers
We teach them to be safe
We teach them to be frightened
Or frightening
It’s necessary
In our society
And we can’t do anything about it
We may not like it but
This is as normal
As our lives
get.

the word comes down

something other than caffeine and alcohol and guilt
and panic should enter my system
but i don’t feel the need
for anything but an end to this
and i know only
how to continue it
with the general idea
that at some point comes sudden death
but only after sufficient
fear panic guilt alcohol and caffeine

Ode To Captain B

The last post reminded me of this, which appeared in Monday Night # 2, and is probably more a rant than a poem but what the hell.

ODE TO CAPTAIN B

But I like writing that’s difficult. I like music that’s difficult. Cuz it isn’t difficult for me. Captain Beefheart is my Britney Spears, one catchy dance tune after another. But better dressed, and more attractive. And intelligent, something to aspire to. Songs about Merc Montclairs and human being totem poles, hallucinogenic knowledge of reality. Life as a desert, life as seen by life, not by some visitor. To be the world and hate those who defile it, an ecological religious zeal. It makes so much sense it’s incredible how rare these beliefs are. How selfish other beliefs are, and how self-destructive most of that selfishness is. Destroying where you live to live better, a stunningly grisly illogic. It does need a tune, the truth hurts in just words, Dachau blues those poor Jews. Yeah, and it stuns, pain we can’t fathom but it’s been subjected intentionally from human to human, and I think I will drink now, I think I will drink far too much. Because I’m a part of this planet and don’t know how to stop what it does to itself, if there is a God we are a failed experiment, why didn’t the motherfucker give us some heart. Yay, Mary, where is your boy. Now when we need him, always we need him. If we can’t spare each other we should at least spare the planet but we seem incapable even of that. Those with heart have no strength, those with strength have no heart. Of course everyone wants to kill everyone, with every country run by cocksucking bastards. Who wouldn’t want to kill that, what sort of heathen wouldn’t be a terrorist. Where imperialism is considered relatively peaceful, where political necessity requires immorality. To get what we want we must support torture. How important is what we want. What the fuck do we want. Jesus I just want a beer and a place to stay and occasional sex, a washed body and an unwashed brain. And a place where my children can stand to live. Not just an isolated street but a world. So forgive me if I just don’t get your popular tunes with their lilting little simple melodies. And I understand shrieks and whispers and jokes that aren’t funny. And I am confused all the time, and need words that don’t mock that. And need songs that can be sung by people who don’t look good.

Ghosts (for Albert Ayler)

I've been stumbling across Albert Ayler's name a lot lately. Here's a poem I wrote about him (sort of) a few years back; it was in the first issue of Monday Night.

Ghosts (for Albert Ayler)

They found Albert Ayler
dead in the East River
his feet tied together

So, who the fuck
puts a hit on a saxman?
He must’ve had bad habits,
because genius is not
a thing men get killed for,
or we’d have heard by now
how Einstein ducked assassins’ bullets.
Then again
maybe he was a threat
only to other scientists
And maybe they killed him
Secretly, slowly,
Taking so long that no one suspected;
And maybe Ayler was murdered
by another saxophonist
jealous of the honking squawks
the anguished wails
the misery embodied in solos
that cried out
for an afterlife now
Or maybe it was suicide
and he wove the ropes around himself
with the same dark magic that forced
taut yowls from the depths
where his breath searched for a soul
Maybe Ayler couldn’t stand
to play another haunted
note.