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by A.D. Winans |
| WHERE HAVE ALL THE OLD POLITICAL POETS GONE the old political poets don't read much anymore content to scan the pages of major literary journals, looking for their names in print, their books reviewed the old poets borrow lines from their contemporaries, but only when suffering writers block the old poets no longer have mother Russia to comfort them the old poets have no parties to join no Red Guard to march with no parade to goose step too the old poets sprinkle wheat germ on their cereal and drink only bottled water the old poets forsake salt with meals and take pride in the little known fact that an average spill of semen contains less than twenty-five calories the old poets have no causes left to die for no mother land to call their own the old poets have turned in their bombs and union cards for chump change and social security the old poets are tired like Atlas they have learned the hard way you can't carry the world on your shoulders the old poets see life through Dante's eyes no longer able to distinguish truth from lies the old poets have traded in their party cards for government grants and a shot at making GAP commercials the old poets have sold out their dreams realizing that suffering is overrated the old poets have quit writing political poems no longer carry Nietzsche inside their head the old poets ride the poetry circuit pony express grabbing for the gold ring all too willing to sell themselves for a lottery chance at fame POEM FOR THE KID I DISAPPOINTED OK, Kid you have the right to be angry I mean living in Detroit or the Big Apple isn't easy and this war on terrorism has everyone uneasy but I'm afraid what it boils down to is who to rob and who to cheat who to pray for and who to play with granted you have known your share of pain and despair but there are thousands of men in prison who live inside their insides move like smoke in the dark play with minds like a molester in the park men labeled as outlaws by the keepers of the state men who have seen idols weep men butchered and bled in their sleep so forgive me, kid for not living up to your expectations the sad truth is that I've been killed a hundred times over in my sleep felt the Madonna between wrinkled sheets known the power and guns of an unfeeling state and religious bigots filled with hate angry, me, kid? you best believe it who else could write such things and pass it off as a poem it must be these hazel eyes eyes that have seen grown men cry and one to many friends die OK, kid I'll confess, it's true there aren't many of us left and those who are are forced to look back ever fearful of a new generation of vipers the truth is that one gets you dead the other crippled or maimed and when is the last time you held your head in shame? look, kid it's growing late and I'm slipping into low gear morning will soon arrive and I'm running out of beer soon it will be time to go out and prove myself all over again prove that I'm human and able to withstand the programmed thrusts at my soul and I hope for your sake kid that when your times comes you're up to the challenge no reason to rant and rave like this there's a black bird on my balcony and life is pure bliss liking waiting on the Godfather's kindly kiss look, kid don't worry, I'm only kidding it's all one big shuck I really don't give a fuck I'm as gentle as they come bring me a bible and I'll swear on it no shit, just me, Dillinger and you what it really boils down to is who to rob and who to pray with this anger that bounces off your skull like a wrecking ball meant for a new shopping mall all these causes so damn many causes and my friends all ending up like torn scraps of paper tossed into a trash can marching to the tune of another man's band beginning to sound familiar kid a cliche you say hell, kid what did you expect an original poem? |
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