DEATH IN ASPIC -- A CBA NEWS SPECIAL REPORT
It has recently been determined
That food is the leading cause of death in humans.
The surgeon general is uncertain what to recommend:
Eating in moderation? Food-Free Fridays?
Perhaps--sober, state-owned restaurants....
The Catholic Church has compromised
By discontinuing wafers (for Man does not live by bread alone),
But (considering the Holy Spirits, the Benedictines, and quadrupled attendance at Mass)
The Pope was firm about wine.
Farmers are dumping grain onto Third World stock markets
As quickly as possible before the news spreads,
And food-related industries are preparing a massive ad campaign
To persuade people that dining is a pleasure
They simply cannot live without.
Meanwhile, biochemists are working around the clock
To perfect photosynthetic implantation techniques
For the President and his Cabinet.
Consumers throughout the nation seem calm, but apprehensive;
And children continue to report
That the pigs and the trees are laughing.
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THE ACE
I am the Ace of Triskelia
I do not match suit
You will not know how to deal
With me
I enhance the Queen of Flowers
I collapse the Twelve of Bridges
I unnerve the Knave of Jollity
I bury all Kings.
Someone in a theater of action near you --
Someone you know -- is playing by a different kind
Of rules.
The game has been changed to protect
No one.
I appear to be the promise of a warning.
Your attention please:
There is a storm coming.
There may be unclassified detriment in your area.
Some structures are unsafe.
You who are living in a house of cards,
Abandon all levels --
Repeat: All levels exit to ground.
There is a storm coming.
Exit promptly, and run to ground.
Continue moving at top speed.
Do not hit the deck.
DO NOT hit the deck.
There is a new game plan
In effect:
This deck
Hits back.
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ARS MARS, ECONOMICA, ET POETICA
Poetry
Has no function
In the marketplace.
Even death makes a better living
Than poetry.
Morticians get more for their labor,
Are in greater demand,
And have better retirement plans
Than poets.
Unlike poems, corpses
Must be properly disposed of,
On sanitary and sentimental grounds.
Thus, in the marketplace,
Undertaking is an essential service.
Poetry is not.
Funny, huh? But true.
Death is a prudent investment.
For example,
Nuclear weapons and military equipment manufacturers
Make more money than secretaries,
elementary school teachers
housekeepers
mothers
day care managers
social workers
nurses
cooks
and fast food counter clerks
Combined.
The wages of home economics is poverty.
The wages of death is cash.
See, in market terminology, life has a high overhead;
But when death is your product,
The other guy pays the costs.
Not that poetry has any overhead to speak of:
A pen, paper. Day-old bread, cheap wine. A garrett -- maybe a candle.
Poets can get by without health insurance.
No, operating expenses do not account
For the industry's lack of security.
Consider: bombs, logic, and poetry
Are all dangerous luxury items,
Equally disruptive to world order
When openly deployed.
Gross, wholesale murder can be retailed to net
A considerable profit. (What you might call decapitational gains.)
Yet poetry fails to yield a tangible dividend. Why?
Well, for one thing,
Logic can be sold duty-free, especially when it is
Conveniently sealed in a sterile vacuum pack;
Whereas poetry is subject to customs,
And is mostly produced in unsanitary conditions.
But the biggest problem is in appraisal and assessment.
To function in the marketplace,
An item must be defined by its market value.
As you realize, weaponry has a definite cost.
However, properly speaking, poetry cannot be bought
Or sold in the marketplace.
It is impossible to purchase something
That is credited with no worth.
Poetry, you see, is priceless.
And besides that,
Poetry is free.
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PLAIN FRUIT
Living in kingly luxury,
I have no duties at all,
Except to see that the house is cleaned,
And to shop at the local mall.
The bread that I eat is good bread.
The water I drink is pure.
The springs are forever flowing
The sources of bread are sure.
Of the people who make me wealthy,
I haven't a name or a clue.
It could be any or everyone --
Maybe somebody like you.
There isn't the slightest connection
Between my possessions and toil.
My water comes down from the mountain.
My bread comes up from the soil.
My power is everlasting
Because it is founded on guns,
Torture, political prisoners,
The raping and murder of nuns.
My water will never be poisoned.
No blood will be mixed with my bread.
Nothing can ever get to me.
I'm completely secure in my head.
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THE UNVISIBLE, CRAWLING
My anger is a serpent
that is coiled on a rock.
Its skin is the color
of electric shock.
Its teeth are the memories
I do not like.
I do not know the moment
it will move to strike.
My anger has a hundred
eyes that never close.
My anger is not sleeping
and my anger grows.
Clear is the venom
that its mouth distills.
Its poison is a cure
that just as surely kills.
My anger is an alien
you fail to see.
Your only hope of living
is to let it be.
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YELLOW BUTTERFLY
The woman with the scarred face looks out into the world,
and sees hypocrisy only in Man.
The sly knowing, the nudge, the wink,
are not present in other entities.
Look whither she will, she cannot find that greasy affect elsewhere.
Neither squabbling birds nor tree - strangling vines
pretend to any goodness or nobility.
Their motives do not mask their intentions.
Women's pleasure in fine dressing is as natural
and evident as flowers.
Children stare unashamed at what interests them.
Man's eyes slide back and forth in their sockets,
slippery with greed. Man's eyes slide back
and forth -- appraising, judging, claiming.
Every hungry for sensation, he walks about, half-smiling.
Freely, his belly protrudes.
He startles and bobs, miming a hasty greeting, when his eyes
register the steady gaze of the scar-faced woman.
"This one is aware of me," feels Man. "I must
be prudent, I must restrict my freedom. I must
look elsewhere for my pleasure."
The woman with the scarred face again looks out into the world.
Her eyes are rested on the motion of a yellow butterfly.
She smiles.
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REVOLVING INTO THE LIGHT
I ain't holding out a hungry hand, oh brother,
I ain't asking for a contribution,
I aint' telling you to take a stand
When I talk about revolution.
I ain't talking 'bout wrong or right --
Just saying turn your face to the light, oh brother,
Turn your face to the light.
I ain't preaching what you got to do, oh sister,
I ain't offering absolution,
I don't want to make you sad or blue
When I talk about revolution.
It's just as plain as day and night --
You can turn your face to the light, oh sister,
Turn your face to the light.
Turn your face to the light, oh people,
Turn your face to the light.
You don't have to run or fight,
You just turn your face to the light, oh people,
Turn your face to the light.
I ain't packing no kind of grenade, oh children,
I ain't throwing out the Constitution,
I ain't looking for a big crusade
When I talk about revolution.
You don't have to use dynamite --
You just turn your face to the light, oh children,
Turn your face to the light.
I ain't asking you to carry a blade --
Ain't no officers to be obeyed --
There ain't no place you got to invade --
You don't have to be afraid, oh children!
Turn your face to the light, mm mmm mm,
Turn your face to the light.
Turn your face to the light, oh people,
Turn your face to the light.
You don't have to run or fight,
You just turn your face to the light, oh people,
Turn your face to the light.
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EXCEEDINGLY MODERN PROTHALAMION
Chorus
(in unison)
How shall we talk about sex, my darling?
How shall we speak of the act, my jo?
We have so much to learn about loving--
There are so many wonders to know.
(he)
We can talk lady to gentleman, dearest,
Conversing in elegant terms --
(she)
I think that method unwise my darling,
Consid'ring the nature of germs.
(chorus)
(he)
We can talk doctor to patient my darling,
As the authorities do --
(she)
The voice of authority is rather dry
Pronouncing the words 'I love you'.
(chorus)
(he)
We can talk saint to sinner my darling
Wherein I confess of my fall--
(she)
And I forgive you repeatedly,
Never getting what I want at all.
(chorus)
(he)
We can talk mother to son, my darling,
I know it is commonly done --
(she)
O, I had in mind a relation more piquant,
I was hoping for rather more fun.
(chorus)
(he)
We can talk man to man, my darling,
Each playing a boysterous role --
(she)
Men seem to strive so with each other,
And striving is not my goal.
(chorus)
(he)
We can talk woman to man, my darling,
Let us talk woman to man.
(she)
Yes, let us talk like two human beings,
Doing the best we can.
(he)
So here are the words of wisdom she gave me
Here is her free advice,
Which I pass on to you as freely, hoping it will suffice:
(she)
Men love to dream of private suction,
And other acts of fancy fuction,
But I've yet to meet one who'll take instruction.
(he)
If a man knows a woman he wants to please
He needn't beg on his bended knees
Nor allow the tears in his lonely eyes to glisten.
If you want to please a woman, guys -- just effing listen.
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THE CODE OF THE DRESSED
Women's clothing is designed
With male fantasy in mind,
And very little else goes into the garment --
Certainly not the comfort of the consumer.
Instead, much thought is spent
On putting men in a happy, fuzzy, titillated humor.
As women's clothes get finer and confiner,
You can practically read the thoughts of the designer:
"Breasts? Always, always emphasize.
Waist? Clenched as if in a vise.
Torso? Tightly ensheathe --
Women have no pressing need to breathe.
Hips? Never heard of 'em.
Got too much? Better girdle 'em.
Belly! No such thing as a woman's belly. Don't be ridiculous.
Bellies always belong to men of power prodiculous.
Legs? Inevitably tapered, long, and slim.
That's the only way gentlemen love a limb."
I never choose
to wear women's shoes.
High heels are virtual Chinese torture devices --
They cripple slowly at very high prices.
It's obvious Man is a worm and a slimy stinker.
Why does Woman swallow his stuff hook line and sinker?
I certainly do wish
Women would cease to act like fish.
If women would let those awful, binding clothes
Sit on the racks in long and winding rows,
Until they rotted off the high-class, elegant hanger,
Men would get the message from Bangkok to Bangor.
If clothes were made with a gentler, looser fit,
I'm positive that men would eventually get used to it.
Of course, Western wardrobes resemble a blessed oasis
Compared with the styling a woman Arabian faces.
But America is not that much better
When it comes to making up fashions that fetter.
Long ago, when Ms. Bloomer wore garments pragmatic,
America wheezed so hard it got bloomin' asthmatic.
Newspapers, mayors, magnates and preachers hysterical
Denounced her and called her a Horrible Feminist Radical.
So I am a cynic and I think its futile
To try to convince women not to buy clothing inutile.
Of course, there are always some women (like me) who have sense
Enough to buy clothes in department store sections marked Mens,
Where the prices are lower and pockets are always available --
Where clothing is usually comfortable, seldom femaleable.
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WATER POWER
And so, it happens again: women at gunpoint
Filing into boxcars, packed tightly as possible,
And deprived of water. The doors are padlocked.
Children die inside. It is a long journey.
Men drive the trains. Men drive the trucks,
Hold the guns, withhold the water.
Blank-faced men and some who smile with all
Their hate in their teeth. Men, enjoying power.
The American eagle, well-fed, sits contented in the Rockies.
He is pleased with his image, the likeness that appears
On a few silver coins, and above the doors of the Congressional washrooms.
He stirs slightly, preening his right wing.
Men walk freely back and forth through the doors of the Congressional washrooms,
Always passing beneath his image, and they too are content.
There is plenty of water inside, and they can easily wash their hands.
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UNTITLED #1
Sleep my child and peace attend thee,
All through the night.
Guns and bombs will not defend thee,
No hope in flight.
Soft the glowing dust is creeping, hill and vale in poison steeping --
I alone my watch am keeping,
All through the night.
None gave help when I went seeking
All through the night.
None but I can hear thy shrieking
All through the night.
No one knew the towers were leaking nor what harm these powers were wreaking.
In thy cancer, God is speaking
All through the night.
While the moon her light is shedding
All through the night.
Blood and foulness stain thy bedding
All through the night.
Now the poison waste we're dreading o'er the land and sky is spreading --
Power and money had their wedding
All in plain sight.
Hush my child, oh hush your weeping
All through the night.
This indifferent world is sleeping
All through the night.
Let thy spirit, gently stealing, leave thy body -- Death is healing.
I will stay beside thee, kneeling
All through the night.
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