One Response to “Even More Popular Culture”

1. fake redhead Says:
   January 7th, 2004 at 2:54 pm

   Don’t forget Ani!

   self evident
   (inspired by the WTC disaster)

   yes,
   us people are just poems
   we’re 90% metaphor
   with a leanness of meaning
   approaching hyper-distillation
   and once upon a time
   we were moonshine
   rushing down the throat of a giraffe
   yes, rushing down the long hallway
   despite what the p.a. announcement says
   yes, rushing down the long stairs
   with the whiskey of eternity
   fermented and distilled
   to eighteen minutes
   burning down our throats
   down the hall
   down the stairs
   in a building so tall
   that it will always be there
   yes, it’s part of a pair
   there on the bow of noah’s ark
   the most prestigious couple
   just kickin back parked
   against a perfectly blue sky
   on a morning beatific
   in its indian summer breeze
   on the day that america
   fell to its knees
   after strutting around for a century
   without saying thank you
   or please

   and the shock was subsonic
   and the smoke was deafening
   between the setup and the punch line
   cuz we were all on time for work that day
   we all boarded that plane for to fly
   and then while the fires were raging
   we all climbed up on the windowsill
   and then we all held hands
   and jumped into the sky

   and every borough looked up when it heard the first blast
   and then every dumb action movie was summarily surpassed
   and the exodus uptown by foot and motorcar
   looked more like war than anything i’ve seen so far
   so far
   so far
   so fierce and ingenious
   a poetic specter so far gone
   that every jackass newscaster was struck dumb and stumbling
   over ‘oh my god’ and ‘this is unbelievable’ and on and on
   and i’ll tell you what, while we’re at it
   you can keep the pentagon
   keep the propaganda
   keep each and every tv
   that’s been trying to convince me
   to participate
   in some prep school punk’s plan to perpetuate retribution
   perpetuate retribution
   even as the blue toxic smoke of our lesson in retribution
   is still hanging in the air
   and there’s ash on our shoes
   and there’s ash in our hair
   and there’s a fine silt on every mantle
   from hell’s kitchen to brooklyn
   and the streets are full of stories
   sudden twists and near misses
   and soon every open bar is crammed to the rafters
   with tales of narrowly averted disasters
   and the whiskey is flowin
   like never before
   as all over the country
   folks just shake their heads
   and pour

   so here’s a toast to all the folks who live in palestine
   afghanistan
   iraq

   el salvador

   here’s a toast to the folks living on the pine ridge reservation
   under the stone cold gaze of mt. rushmore

   here’s a toast to all those nurses and doctors
   who daily provide women with a choice
   who stand down a threat the size of oklahoma city
   just to listen to a young woman’s voice

   here’s a toast to all the folks on death row right now
   awaiting the executioner’s guillotine
   who are shackled there with dread and can only escape into their heads
   to find peace in the form of a dream

   cuz take away our playstations
   and we are a third world nation
   under the thumb of some blue blood royal son
   who stole the oval office and that phony election
   i mean
   it don’t take a weatherman
   to look around and see the weather
   jeb said he’d deliver florida, folks
   and boy did he ever

   and we hold these truths to be self evident:
   #1 george w. bush is not president
   #2 america is not a true democracy
   #3 the media is not fooling me
   cuz i am a poem heeding hyper-distillation
   i’ve got no room for a lie so verbose
   i’m looking out over my whole human family
   and i’m raising my glass in a toast

   here’s to our last drink of fossil fuels
   let us vow to get off of this sauce
   shoo away the swarms of commuter planes
   and find that train ticket we lost
   cuz once upon a time the line followed the river
   and peeked into all the backyards
   and the laundry was waving
   the graffiti was teasing us
   from brick walls and bridges
   we were rolling over ridges
   through valleys
   under stars
   i dream of touring like duke ellington
   in my own railroad car
   i dream of waiting on the tall blonde wooden benches
   in a grand station aglow with grace
   and then standing out on the platform
   and feeling the air on my face

   give back the night its distant whistle
   give the darkness back its soul
   give the big oil companies the finger finally
   and relearn how to rock-n-roll
   yes, the lessons are all around us and a change is waiting there
   so it’s time to pick through the rubble, clean the streets
   and clear the air
   get our government to pull its big dick out of the sand
   of someone else’s desert
   put it back in its pants
   and quit the hypocritical chants of
   freedom forever

   cuz when one lone phone rang
   in two thousand and one
   at ten after nine
   on nine one one
   which is the number we all called
   when that lone phone rang right off the wall
   right off our desk and down the long hall
   down the long stairs
   in a building so tall
   that the whole world turned
   just to watch it fall

   and while we’re at it
   remember the first time around?
   the bomb?
   the ryder truck?
   the parking garage?
   the princess that didn’t even feel the pea?
   remember joking around in our apartment on avenue D?

   can you imagine how many paper coffee cups would have to change their design
   following a fantastical reversal of the new york skyline?!

   it was a joke, of course
   it was a joke
   at the time
   and that was just a few years ago
   so let the record show
   that the FBI was all over that case
   that the plot was obvious and in everybody’s face
   and scoping that scene
   religiously
   the CIA
   or is it KGB?
   committing countless crimes against humanity
   with this kind of eventuality
   as its excuse
   for abuse after expensive abuse
   and it didn’t have a clue
   look, another window to see through
   way up here
   on the 104th floor
   look
   another key
   another door
   10% literal
   90% metaphor
   3000 some poems disguised as people
   on an almost too perfect day
   should be more than pawns
   in some asshole’s passion play
   so now it’s your job
   and it’s my job
   to make it that way
   to make sure they didn’t die in vain
   sshhhhhh….
   baby listen
   hear the train?

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