August 31, 1990

63

don’t pay attention
to the one calling you a motherfucker
be aware of the one that smiles in your face
with a knife blade cold against your back
giving an educated speech about
how we all are born equal
until certain things
that differentiate from class to class
from ethnic group to ethnic group
just minor differences
that divide the haves from the have nots
like the one walking straight
into an invisible wall
while the other
has a uniformed doorman
opening the door
even at birth
some slip easily through
a well lubricated vagina
others pass through the tunnel
in great pain
perhaps knowing even then
the going was going to be rough
right from the start
it’s the privileged ones
or just plain wealthy
& so well connected
that all it takes is a phone call
& from then on it’s “yes sir
it will be done as you wish”
in the old movie by de sica
a miracle in milano
the capitalist wearing the tuxedo
& a top hat
asks the butler while standing in front of
a shanty town made of refuse by the railroad
              “who are those”
              “those are the poor sir” answered the servant

but then
they used to call such movies neo-realism

October 6, 1990

96

insane
           hiding in catacombs
           subterranean trains
           awakening them
           going through incubus tunnels

insane
           asleep under buzzing lights
           that morph into attacking bees & swarming wasps

insane
           see laughter in the rat’s mouth
           see cutting lasers in their eyes

 insane
           talking to the octopus with shark eyes
           descending into lower sewers into deep oceans

insane
           rejected cargo beyond exploitation
           their brains useless for further experimentation

November 9, 1990

112

there is an ad on TV
selling a spray:
           kill dandelions
           the unwanted ugly weed

I take from the field
the stem holding
the dandelion seeds
blow into them
to disperse the seeds
over the land
for procreation

I pick the fresh
tender leaves
cut as the teeth of a lion

I taste the bitter roots
then thank mother earth
for this food
that sustained so many of us
from hunger

it’s war time
the spring of ‘44
an homage
to a very dear plant
that is long overdue

November 12, 1990

113

thin evaporated shadows
elongated trembling
against a white calcified space
veiled apparitions escaping
from another time frame capsule
candle smoke consuming the tenuous wick
flickering film frames
later copied into video
with the old black & white tape
full of drop out & technically bad editing
a tall thin polish woman with striking features
spoke to me of war in a night of love
it was the middle 50’s then
memories were reflecting
over the cheap wine glass
since then washed sterilized
afraid of being contaminated by
left over germs & the smell of
pulverized buildings burned out beams
that held someone’s home
how ancient one must be to speak
of such a time
a time when lines of shadows
carried on their backs all the possessions
their bodies could sustain
as is the bag lady carrying
a home in a plastic bag
her real home destroyed
the shadows in streets of a country
that’s quick to bomb many others
when never a bomb fell on its soil
except its own made atomic bombs
detonated in the desert for experimentation
a country at war with its people
with racial wars / class wars / economic wars
eating its own internal organs
dropping to oblivion lives
not worth for profit
or exploitation
human throw away discards
in the land of greed
in the land of fat
in the land of shadows