James Berger
To Actually Run a Government!
How Cool would that Be!!
To actually run a government!
How cool would that be!!
Just move people round, in and out–
clear out the desk dude, give me your password
and make for the door!
Obey the directive, place your butt on the floor!
Hey, let’s play some music while we
investigate the wasteful expenditures of debris
time money furniture regulation personnel
plant based solar geothermal vaccine departments
and dance through inputs of energy and the big wheel
points to you–Adios amigo! you’re gone! And what’s that
look on your face? Hit the pike, Mike, and your friend the dyke
can take a hike, it’s Spoken Word, my word’s preferred,
your word’s a turd.
It’s art! It’s choreography–the movement in spirals of bodies
and voices, the seizing of records and inner disposal systems.
Now everyone knows the secrets or your supposed autonomy!
Bring it forth! Spin it! Derange it! Depopulate it! Unname it!
The elation of negation! It’s AvantGov.Garde!!
Bend to the will of the Director.
Do it. Do what he says. You’re fucking fired.
You’re history. You’re going to descend
into the boiling groovy cauldron of national extinction
and the ecstasy of the corporate excremental
navigation contract. Be. Be not.
Arrivederci asshole!
Bring your lawsuits, you insects!
I own the judges.
To actually run a government!
How cool would that be!!
Susan M. Schultz, Abstract series
The World Is that Which Is the Case
One leg sinks,
the other is stable,
then it sinks.
Muck is cold.
Cold muck.
Can you float in it?
Throw your quiddity
and live
against the bouncing leverage
Keep the world
cited
just in case
there are too many Sentences
*********
grieving and weighting
on sinking anchors
whose muck folds
its balance
now fields
assumptions pitched
pouring mouths
of bloomed questions
that stink of answers
*********
No doubt, no doubt,
no doubt.
They struggled;
wrestled with angels, staggered with wounds:
Stumbled to the tablets
Saw gray-white surfaces
Thought, what is wrong with me?
What is wrong with me?
I see nothing
I see nothing
The rabbit returned to the crocus to the antithesis to the umbrella
The pollen returned to the crosswind to the synapse
The particle separated from the lifespan
The sense of beauty reintegrated to the conspiracy
The minute returned
The ocean separated
The insurgence reintegrated
The extinct animals brought their passports to the checkpoint
The poets escorted them to the waiting root-systems
Hollowed out the predicate?
A question.
Pushed verbs onto digital slaughter tables?
Prepositions follow out of love or obligation;
cruxed and fulcrumed
the encompassed speaker
scrambles up the unmuraled path
of a new hooked word jar
still uncited.
When at last will
he renounce something?
Susan M. Schultz, Abstract series
The Poem is Everything
The poem is everything.
Every poem is a poem of hope.
It can’t help it–
It says, here I am, I’ve been written!
Whatever else is true, this is true.
A living person thought of me and wrote me,
however full of despair;
and then even revised me!
Why would he do that?
The poem of despair can never be written.
Whatever it would be, it has no shape,
no sound, no face, no mass, no resistant tissue,
obviously no words.
It is pure refusal.
The infinite assemblage of synapses
fight despair, fight for the poem.