Call out the players of Souza horns,
and bring the bangers of big bass drums.
The quadrennial perpetration has begun.
Wake up him of Aaron’s trumpet blast.
Bid him break out his fife and play
a jingo tune in marching time.
All summer long coax him to listenwatch as
puffed up black cigars make big pretends
and shout out their hollow promises.
Then comes November the cruelest month
when disingenuous pledges have been made,
as the big cigars strut their final shams.
Into the sacred booth he’s drawn
to close the curtain, pull the lever,
and perform his consecrated rite.
Down into the deep abyss he goes
to the darkness of Pluto’s den
pleading her freedom one more time.
Then away they run, her limping
from the bite of last time’s
fatal serpent’s fang.
Up they come from the blackened hole
standing at the curtain looking out
ready to step forth with the truth.
The cigars shout, “Look Back!”
He turns and looks one last time
as Columbia vanishes back into the deep.
Then over again with four more years time
the epoch of flying paper fantasy goes on
to where be gives way to seem.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Friday, January 1, 2010
The Race Horse
The Race Horse
To the people who own
The people who sit in the high clubhouse seats
Wearing blue blazers and big frilly hats
Drinking champagne from plastic glasses
Talking of scandals In Kentucky, Virginia, or Park Avenue
The race horse is but a commodity
Something to buy and to sell and brag about owning
Then when they are done, to dispose of
Without even a thought or a moments hesitation
But, to the groom, the hot walker, the exercise rider
The racehorse is real with hair and bone and blood in its veins
And a heart as big as the world that makes the horse run
‘till that heart almost explodes.
These are the people who rise every dark morning
And take loving pride care
And are there with big proudness
Whether he wins or he loses.
To the people who own
The people who sit in the high clubhouse seats
Wearing blue blazers and big frilly hats
Drinking champagne from plastic glasses
Talking of scandals In Kentucky, Virginia, or Park Avenue
The race horse is but a commodity
Something to buy and to sell and brag about owning
Then when they are done, to dispose of
Without even a thought or a moments hesitation
But, to the groom, the hot walker, the exercise rider
The racehorse is real with hair and bone and blood in its veins
And a heart as big as the world that makes the horse run
‘till that heart almost explodes.
These are the people who rise every dark morning
And take loving pride care
And are there with big proudness
Whether he wins or he loses.
The Late Phoenix Bookstore
The Late Phoenix Bookstore
Cornelia Street
Greenwich Village
New York NY
The smell
of new books, ink, paper, sweat, blood, dust, love, lust
hits, smacks, slaps, thumps, snaps,
you
at the door.
Rows of shelves and
shelves of rows
of thin little books with spines of
red and blue and green and yellow
and all the colors splashing together
like at rainbows end.
Each full of words
coaxed, cajoled, enticed, coerced, bullied, pulled, torn, jerked, ripped
from the mother lexica.
Then
placed, scribed, printed, jotted, scribbled,
etched, scrawled, scratched, gouged
in the blood writing
of a myriad poet hands.
Inside soft chair lounging
and floor sitting
in the corners
the poet ghost presence lives.
Cornelia Street
Greenwich Village
New York NY
The smell
of new books, ink, paper, sweat, blood, dust, love, lust
hits, smacks, slaps, thumps, snaps,
you
at the door.
Rows of shelves and
shelves of rows
of thin little books with spines of
red and blue and green and yellow
and all the colors splashing together
like at rainbows end.
Each full of words
coaxed, cajoled, enticed, coerced, bullied, pulled, torn, jerked, ripped
from the mother lexica.
Then
placed, scribed, printed, jotted, scribbled,
etched, scrawled, scratched, gouged
in the blood writing
of a myriad poet hands.
Inside soft chair lounging
and floor sitting
in the corners
the poet ghost presence lives.
The Day Normal Changed
The day normal changed
Friday, November 22, 1963
Working 4 o’clock shift
1 o’clock get up
Shower out last night’s all night
Cigarette smoke
Beer drunk
Snooker table
Cobwebs
Ten dollars out front
Smile
Rush to laundry
Starched fatigues ready
Back to the barracks and change
Then off to the mail room before chow
Read/walk a letter from my grandmother
Check enclosed
Smile
A tear streaked face snaps in front of me
Its mouth opens,
“They shot the God damned President”
I stopped and
Normal changed
Forever.
Friday, November 22, 1963
Working 4 o’clock shift
1 o’clock get up
Shower out last night’s all night
Cigarette smoke
Beer drunk
Snooker table
Cobwebs
Ten dollars out front
Smile
Rush to laundry
Starched fatigues ready
Back to the barracks and change
Then off to the mail room before chow
Read/walk a letter from my grandmother
Check enclosed
Smile
A tear streaked face snaps in front of me
Its mouth opens,
“They shot the God damned President”
I stopped and
Normal changed
Forever.
Sunday Morning Moon Beach Okinawa
Sunday Morning
Moon Beach, Okinawa
1965
By Fred Shira
Waves rhythm lap
Against ancient Chinese placed rocks.
Gulls float static overhead.
The sea smell drifts in and out
cleansing the olfactory memory of
dead bodies in
black bags lined up and firewood stacked
on the sun heated tarmac
where wounds rot and stomachs swell
and death smells leak through zippered teeth.
But here strewn along the cool beach sand
like a Dali painting lay
the remnants of last night’s Saki revelry
sleeping youth taut bodies
airman, soldiers, sailors
all too young to be asked
what they are being asked to do.
But then what is the right age
to die?
This morning
with my knife and a pineapple
bought for just a quarter
I sit on the antique seawall
alone
drawing in the fresh sea air
the gulls float overhead
the waves rhythm lap
I have breakfast with God.
Moon Beach, Okinawa
1965
By Fred Shira
Waves rhythm lap
Against ancient Chinese placed rocks.
Gulls float static overhead.
The sea smell drifts in and out
cleansing the olfactory memory of
dead bodies in
black bags lined up and firewood stacked
on the sun heated tarmac
where wounds rot and stomachs swell
and death smells leak through zippered teeth.
But here strewn along the cool beach sand
like a Dali painting lay
the remnants of last night’s Saki revelry
sleeping youth taut bodies
airman, soldiers, sailors
all too young to be asked
what they are being asked to do.
But then what is the right age
to die?
This morning
with my knife and a pineapple
bought for just a quarter
I sit on the antique seawall
alone
drawing in the fresh sea air
the gulls float overhead
the waves rhythm lap
I have breakfast with God.
Sterling Brown Has Come To Town
Sterling Brown has come to town.
It’s up to 125th street depot
to catch the “A” Train Express,
tonight we’re goin’ way on down
Sterling Brown has come to town
Jamb packed jiggling side to side
back and forth in sardine rhythm
iron wheels clackin’ round and round
Sterling Brown has come to town.
Christmas winter riders on and off
collars tight and wool scarves donned
outside snow comes falling down
Sterling Brown has come to town.
Stop at twelfth’s street corner diner
big black coffee hand warm steaming
two big cookies fresh and round
Sterling Brown has come to town.
Then on to Parson’s big warm hall
shed sweaters, coats, and all
shake hands, “Hello”, all around
Sterling Brown has come to town.
Up on the stage sat a black man
paying little mind to the speaker,
“Everyone let’s clap our hands all ‘round”
Sterling Brown had come to town.
He slowly walked up to the mic
and began to read aloud
about the strong men onward bound.
Sterling Brown had come to town.
He read about Ole’ Scrappy
and how Moll’s slippers made her happy
earning with her body down
Sterling Brown had come to town.
He read until he grew weary then moved to sit a spell;
he told about Aunt Biddy’s rocking chair
and how Albert’s mules were brown
Sterling Brown had come to town.
Of all the poets that I have heard
it’s that cold December village night,
I hold in rich renown
when Sterling Brown came to town.
It’s up to 125th street depot
to catch the “A” Train Express,
tonight we’re goin’ way on down
Sterling Brown has come to town
Jamb packed jiggling side to side
back and forth in sardine rhythm
iron wheels clackin’ round and round
Sterling Brown has come to town.
Christmas winter riders on and off
collars tight and wool scarves donned
outside snow comes falling down
Sterling Brown has come to town.
Stop at twelfth’s street corner diner
big black coffee hand warm steaming
two big cookies fresh and round
Sterling Brown has come to town.
Then on to Parson’s big warm hall
shed sweaters, coats, and all
shake hands, “Hello”, all around
Sterling Brown has come to town.
Up on the stage sat a black man
paying little mind to the speaker,
“Everyone let’s clap our hands all ‘round”
Sterling Brown had come to town.
He slowly walked up to the mic
and began to read aloud
about the strong men onward bound.
Sterling Brown had come to town.
He read about Ole’ Scrappy
and how Moll’s slippers made her happy
earning with her body down
Sterling Brown had come to town.
He read until he grew weary then moved to sit a spell;
he told about Aunt Biddy’s rocking chair
and how Albert’s mules were brown
Sterling Brown had come to town.
Of all the poets that I have heard
it’s that cold December village night,
I hold in rich renown
when Sterling Brown came to town.
Morning at LaFayette Square
Morning at LaFayette Square
By Fred Shira
Hey You!
Lying naked cold on the century old sidewalk blankly staring upward into the sky
of the city morning light with your shriveled man-parts showing while your wino brothers hover close to the barrel of burning city wastes wearing the clothes they pulled from your body drinking your share of the wine, ?
Whose child are you?
Did you not suckle at your mother’s breast
taking in the life fluid that was to make you into the body destined for Potter’s Field
where only a very long number will mark your place in history?
Did not a second grade teacher scold you for not making your letters world ready
to tell your story of past, future, never will be, never was?
Did not some girl named Betty, or Martha called Marti, or Sally allow you, show you,
surprise you to find that thirteen year old girl breasts cup perfectly in a
thirteen year old boy hand?
Did not some old queer confuse you when his adult authority hand tried to touch
your fifteen year old boy parts and you being secretly aroused?
Did not Betty, or Martha called Marti, or Sally cry with sad happiness after you
made clumsy boy girl love in the back seat of your father’s car with you fearing
that the love smell would not go away?
Did not you know the joy fear of holding tight your diploma with your youth world
at your back and your life world at your front?
Did not you know places like Da Nang or Bien Hoa or Ia Trang where the life blood of
your generation was spilled leaving fused confusion holding together the world of
your father and the world of your son?
Did not you not leave behind a wife and family crying sadly that you were going, yet
relieved that you were gone?
Did not you not dream about building the world’s greatest building, or driving the
world’s fastest car, then making hand love while fantasizing making real love to
beautiful women only to have your dream fantasies fall short and splash
--kerplunk—rippling the last drink in the bottle?
Whose child are you that will have your obituary written on a police blotter as told
to a yellow call box while the next naked cold body seeks burning barrel wine
warmth not listening or looking or missing or even thinking about you?
Whose child are you that will take his last ride into his number only history in a
mournerless police van driven by an overweight Italian Irish Black Polish police
driver who will go home to Queens, Brooklyn, the Bronx and eat dinner while
watching Hollywood Squares?
By Fred Shira
Hey You!
Lying naked cold on the century old sidewalk blankly staring upward into the sky
of the city morning light with your shriveled man-parts showing while your wino brothers hover close to the barrel of burning city wastes wearing the clothes they pulled from your body drinking your share of the wine, ?
Whose child are you?
Did you not suckle at your mother’s breast
taking in the life fluid that was to make you into the body destined for Potter’s Field
where only a very long number will mark your place in history?
Did not a second grade teacher scold you for not making your letters world ready
to tell your story of past, future, never will be, never was?
Did not some girl named Betty, or Martha called Marti, or Sally allow you, show you,
surprise you to find that thirteen year old girl breasts cup perfectly in a
thirteen year old boy hand?
Did not some old queer confuse you when his adult authority hand tried to touch
your fifteen year old boy parts and you being secretly aroused?
Did not Betty, or Martha called Marti, or Sally cry with sad happiness after you
made clumsy boy girl love in the back seat of your father’s car with you fearing
that the love smell would not go away?
Did not you know the joy fear of holding tight your diploma with your youth world
at your back and your life world at your front?
Did not you know places like Da Nang or Bien Hoa or Ia Trang where the life blood of
your generation was spilled leaving fused confusion holding together the world of
your father and the world of your son?
Did not you not leave behind a wife and family crying sadly that you were going, yet
relieved that you were gone?
Did not you not dream about building the world’s greatest building, or driving the
world’s fastest car, then making hand love while fantasizing making real love to
beautiful women only to have your dream fantasies fall short and splash
--kerplunk—rippling the last drink in the bottle?
Whose child are you that will have your obituary written on a police blotter as told
to a yellow call box while the next naked cold body seeks burning barrel wine
warmth not listening or looking or missing or even thinking about you?
Whose child are you that will take his last ride into his number only history in a
mournerless police van driven by an overweight Italian Irish Black Polish police
driver who will go home to Queens, Brooklyn, the Bronx and eat dinner while
watching Hollywood Squares?
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