September Poem 20: Prosody: A Response to Amiri Baraka Lecture on Revolutionary Poetry July 6 1994

The dissident, the activist, the PC police are ignored, pushed to the sidelines and discredited. They only find themselves an echo chamber of likeminded maniacs. They insulate themselves, differentiate themselves, and separate themselves from the mainstream. They create a world where they are the outcast, where they are oppressed, where their words have no power falling not on deaf ears, but on angry argumentative assholes.


Only the whore, only the sellout, only who is reinforcing the status quo can change the world, does change the world. They work within the system. They speak to people who listen. They create the larger society as their echo chamber. Only they are not echoing society, it is echoing them.


You change the world by increments in the language of the majority, as the majority. You lead a following of the patriarchal racist establishment to the world you want to live in. You do this as art for art sake, Language for language sake. Your words are personal for personal sake. No one need listen to the content because the content does not matter. Only it does matter.


Those exposed to your words, that hear your words, those that made you their whore are not turned off to what you say, do not argue against you, do not close their minds. They hear. They follow. The sheep change the world. Don’t be so full of yourself. You have no power to change the world if you separate yourself from it. You must make yourself a whore. To lead the sheep, you must become a sheep. Join the heard. Follow the sheep.


Amiri Baraka’ s lecture can be found here:

September Poem 18

Looking back to make sure

He doesn’t give a hot meal,

She meets his gaze.

The camera’s gaze.

The masculine gaze,

Sorely lacking

When he sits to respond.


The offended woman approaches.

That is a beggar.

Just give some money,

Anything, everybody, all this,

And look him in the eyes.

Charity is there.

No need to pray.

Rise since a spare is one dollar.

You can give right.


The young man,

Middle-aged, frightened,

Walks quickly to work.

Straight away

Not being followed


Who helps, he calls

When one passes from stage right.

She the greedy little heathen

Could needs the rapture.

God hates the giver.

September Poem 15

Robert inhaled from the seats,

A larger bed of one, a bottled expanse of blue,

And exhaled large rings of amber.


He was lost in the fumes through the vent hole.

The fictional nostrils

Smashed against one wall and died.


Human armpits imbedded into

Sunlight streaked diesel, and sleep,

Death’s interior, was perfumed with my feet

And a bittersweet mix of husky dwarf.


I know from sweat that tough

Where the oils from the long expanse

Dangled from the stained blacktop.

He would not regain the armrests,

Nor his sense of smell for a month.

September Poem 13

Would that I could be Hindu.

Run dream on deep clay.

The white line up from the rock strewn

Friction chips that signaled himself relax.

Float counter to the pleasures of the day.

Smear in as much fish smut to let it

Break his six pound soul.


By myself I cannot this task,

This notion to be.

It is sin.


Mine enemies, the flesh, and their influences.

Christians thunder because pride is a churches name.


I am Christian child of American God,

White beard and white coat,

Corrupting mist hand,

Shimmering stringer of the shadows.

Morality he tamed as he shouted and pulled closed

His other hand around the back lake.

September Poem 12

Because Jeffs’s Hinduism

And his polygamous gospel

Of patriotism and hypocrisy reincarnated,

Every kinship that indicates the word

Believe as someone

Who were to leave every time

We think it is deem fit

Will still make it to be out of touch

For long thought and all experiences

Required to make a full religious bowl

Where their children and

A complete being or designation

Fight back the word as good folks,

Just and independent from turn, might.