In honor of his 115th
I typeset at some Wobblie press
In Bughouse Square by day
Like a desolate guerrilla as
My comrades chanted psalms
To Kronstadt.
By night I practiced scalds
At a clip joint called
The Green Mask
Where I once again was Cros
Recitative at the bal-musette
And there my words created … freedom
To pity the fugitives of some just doom,
Andromeda chained to her rock,
The three generations of infants stuffed
Down the maw of Moloch
But it was too much, even then,
The future had already passed,
The bird of Rhiannon was dead.
The war to end all wars
Had ended
And a new one needed but our resistance
To begin. China had sat in grief
At our neglect long enough. The artists
Had sat in grief at our neglect
Long enough.
Jazz itself had fallen
To the lowest common
Carnal frustration,
Another ancient angel thrown
Into the cacodaemon.
We had already undressed the skirts
On our return, to find they,
Naked, wanted us to examine
Instead
Their minds
And even they had already
Moved on
To posting semi-nude publicity stills
Of themselves
As the truest true of their being.
