October 17, 2007

Some power that hardly looked like power
said I'm only perfect in an empty room

Karl Lintvedt, Twats, 2007

The Horse I Rode In On
-- Dennis Mahagin

for the record, ain't no fine
platinum charger with a name
like Midnight, or Galeron, no

Whiplash the Appaloosa with map
of the world on her ass and flanks, set to go
off even money at Pimlico such as you might
set Rolex by, or take straight to the bank,

this horse I rode, bareback and broke-
dicked, with a pretty
stringy dun-colored mane I've used for reins so long
it's like second nature with shoe strings, traumatic stress
and joint pain, nevertheless does possess a stately
hypnotic clip-clop trot that rings out

on your cobblestone parking lot
like the hot snare drum in that Fleetwood
Mac song called Gold Dust Woman... yet, no Stevie, or McVie
in throes of virtuosity are we, no world shakers, can't you
see we're just hobbling along here?—when

the undercurrents get a bit too strong, I feel
her fears in a reared-back whinny, so I lean
into my horse’s neck then, whispering gratitude
for the way she rescued me, unconditionally,
on the cusp of barbecue in Mojave—with pea
pods and peyote buttons sprouting out my
pale prostrate ass like the time lapse
vine-bindings of every damned

Gulliver, and the bandy-legged, prurient bunch of you
all formed a straggly ridge line binocular queue, watching
me watching you, with a score of crow-hatched country
miles to go before first whiff of Glue Factory, can't you
see I've been on this horse since long before I was rudely

interrupted, or even properly instructed,
turned out, spun around thrice and let down easy
like blindfolded donkey tailback with fraternity stick pin
that won't slide in the absolute pink heart of corsage

unless and until it’s all acknowledged—as mirage,

which is why I’m so earnest with my
whispers in the here and now for this
horse of mine, I tell her over and over
again that She is certainly the entity
I'll keep close, for an eternity, or

as long as my line of talk (what some might
call Luck) holds out-- not necessarily Godlike
in stable of Grace, but the only reasonable
facsimile can trod the face of this earth...

So who is the Honcho
I need to see about a sack of salty oats, cherry red hot
water bottle and the finest wire brush ever fashioned
in these bucolic parts? I swear,

the first Swinging Dick with a fistful of leverage
can bend me right over yonder hitching post,
but if you fuck
with my horse, I'll most likely burn
your little town to the ground.

The Only Fortunate Thing
-- by Joe Wenderoth

You have an idea of yourself.
It is a kind of building.

This building stands on the sound
of your heart-beat,
the imaginary width
of rhythm.

All night
it stands there.
On a sound,
an imaginary width.

It is fortunate, really-
really, the only fortunate thing-
that there is no one in the building.

Incitement To Disobedience
-- by Tom Earley

I wish that I were able to incite
Young men in every land to disobey
For wars will cease when men refuse to fight.

To kill our brothers for a nations right
Is not a method we can use today.
I wish that I were able to incite.

When leaders threaten to resort to might,
I know that idols all have feet of clay.
For wars will cease when men refuse to fight.

The cause of peace is shared by black and white
And freedom fighters show a better way.
I wish that I were able to incite.

Non-violent resistance has no bite
While undecided pacifists delay.
For wars will cease when men refuse to fight.

With power to reinforce in what I write
The things that protest-singers try to say,
I wish that I were able to incite
For wars will cease when men refuse to fight.


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