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Poetry

The Urinal Stalls Arcane

Jack Hirschman

1.

Lemme drip this, Amiri,
and shake it before I zip up:
the way I understand it
you wanado the revolu-
tion’s-seizure-of-power thing,
and so unite like a cosy czar
with a liberal millionaire class
operative and, because he’s Black
— or half-Black, (or is it 3/5 percent?) —
blindly stick the tail of the ass
on your own,  refuse to see him
as another burlesque coglione,
and a class enemy: he’s a poet
like yourself, and so your vanity
re prophecy fulfilled a generation
ago, before his parents even named
him Barack, Baraka, is crowned.

I mean, even the moon
of Alabama
knows Obama’s
come from a
linguistic mutation.
as the counter
to Osama
and (also) with Hussein
in his name
sopping up the guilt
the people feel
for having believed
a pack of thugs
who’d forced them
into war. In fact, your
progressive agenda,
the “newer New Deal”

you project onto Obama,
is closer to what McKinney or
Nader are about. Seems that,
really, in a twist of timany Black
martooneys, you’ve surrendered
to the class enemy you insist
(while calling Left anarchist or
trotskyite tendencies infantile) 
is the 4th Black Revolution, and
put your hope in some corrupt
new dope, when surely you know
Barack’s winning the election
will lead to the same no-diff.
They one Party, and will lead
all of us into another war. So,
choosing the lesser of two evils,
— that yawningly cowardly

choiceless choice we’re given
to exercise every 4 years—-you
want us to slosh in the same-
old trough, this time with a new
cock a-crowing on the heap of its
filthy lies. And the “pimpable figment”
(Obama’s ‘post-racist’ doubletalk,
which righteously you decry for
the all-class, all-race whore of an
idea it is) you’re nonetheless going
to bed with, for cop-power-tailism,
and it’ll indeed be the “figment”:
on Porn St., the new-old Broadway:
in brazen sunlight, the Pussay twins 
are already collapsing in a fellaughio
105 hystericals high. The real truth
isn’t pretty, the real truth in fact is:

they’ve wrapped it up behind your
back, of course said there’s no turning
back: it’s Springfield’s sleek Lincoln
emerging from the splashy Kennedy-
King-Kennedy Carwash, since it’s
more and more known we’re all
part-Black and come from Africa
(they say), come all the way from Texas
lookin’ for a power play — “Forward
to where we have to go!” Buy the fig,
unite with the ho. Grow little Shitlers
like that bush-leaguer in Iran, apt
reflection of the dead Bush in this land.
Listen to The Wall Street Wail, The
Globaloney Fall, and by any means
necessary stimulate the crooks , help ‘em
out the hell they’ve made for all.

2.

But, Jack, didn’t your eyes moisten?
Didn’t you moan and groan no more
when he appeared in your San
Francisco flat in video flesh
and spoke his victory to you and all
your young friends gathered there
from Italy, France, Denmark,
Sweden too? Weren’t your rilkelike
inconspicuous tears identity’s kiss
and vindication of scores of years
of civil righteousness with Black
brothers and sisters against slavery,
segregation, the poll tax, Jim Crow?
And didn’t they affirm the meaning
of the last great human movement
in these now so dis-united States?

And three days after the election,
didn’t it happen — on Battery St.
downtown, in that well-dressed
professional workers’ district —
on the face of that African-American
woman passing, — wasn’t there 
(for the first time in your 36 years
walking San Francisco) a smile,
no, a deeply joyous beam of … of …,
in a moment when sister was freed
to express a shared recognition of
struggle and common humanity.
And didn’t you tell yourself after:
THAT was the change, the birth of
a depth that seeds the idea liberty
should belong to all, and now, per-
hopefully, can be the hallelujah blossom.

3.

Save the 24 Afghani orphan kids found
living in underground sewers in Rome
cuts the blossom in the bud.
Save families on the streets weeping all
the way to the bunks in shelters spits
on the blossom in the bud.
Save the boarded up downtown mills,
factories and empty stations wounds
the blossom in the bud.
Save the suicides that have become the
weapons of mass destruction bloodies
the blossom in the bud.
Save the dream spelled nightmare in
the undocumented tomorrow, and the
laid-off workers shooting up families,
veins, post offices and schools doom
the blossom in the bud
 
4.

Money! Jack! Money. Jack! Money!
Its end: all kiss its hide, and tweak. We
hated life, that was the key. We hated
living because we were forced. Needed
that voice without which there was
hopeless, that power short of which all
was same-old nothing. And he so up to it,
 it’s the thirst of youth what’s doing it,
 more than even Blackness or the slave
curse, which are stirring parts of it, like
 those young fighting bodies murdered
all across the ’60s, and a generation after.
And so can’t you see, Jack, it’s time for
a superb young African-American to be
President of the United States of America
just because he’s young and Black for
a change, and leave the Left at the river.     

After all the destruction everywhere by
that criminal junta, The Vomit Gang,
even his candidacy was epoch-making,
with a feeling that comes with the end
of one katun, the beginning of an other,
the world lifted off the back of a sob,
a presence of freshness and Spring re-
cycling but this time as redemptions for
the assassinations, the throwing of bombs
in a macho monstrosity of evil spreading
like cancer of soul, as if a mouth could
belong to common sense again instead of
to the war-mongers and their oiligarchy
branding with the rabid fangs of Profits
the willing necks of Congress, disciples
of Greed, hustlers who had surrendered
their vision to the sun and moon of Death

But the “new” Congress keeps on drinking
Death for breakfast, spitting on peoples’
needs with arrogance and hate. Bailing
out banks, thieves of robot gold amid the
collapse of money’s value. Stimulating what?
Recovering what? Obama just gave 88 billion
to kill more women and children. If that’s
not enough, comrade Amiri, if a molecule
of the thought’s not begun dawning in you,
let me help it along: it’s a con, the old con
of power, seductively eloquent, transparent
engaging, even inspiring, but the cunningest
con ever hoaxed by one Party with both hands
in all our pockets. There’ll be no progressive
agenda, etc.  nor will Obama a shaman be,
helping a limping katun stand upright in wonder
with the depth-charge of sun-bursting dignity.
 
We’ve already taken that ride, had that lift.
Many were the words, some the deeds, few the
achievements, and the invasions aren’t over.
I got no job and I don’t know any robot hiring.
Why is the face in my mirror Joseph Fritzl’s?
I thought restrictions on Cuba were being lifted:
why was great Silvio Rodriguez denied a visa?
Only the computers can save us. And just might.
They’re the major apparatus of the International
Communist Party of Now and the Future, and the
bills we pay for them are the dues we pay to it for
membership in the freest medium on earth. It’s
the space time’s been waiting for, the process that
we’ve been working 20 years within, the call and
response from literally the other side of the world
instantaneously reminding: wars doom all hope to
failure, wars such as those we’ve been executing,

have set into motion out of desperate fear, on a bed
of lies, the fascism of it all, and Obama simply the
latest chosen to make it digestible to the liberals and
the Left. The wine of the katun’s turned toxic-rancid,
the toon of the katun a cartoon of a dildo in the form
of the new World President between lesbians in cash,
while the governments guzzle the peoples’ blood, and
bees, the yellow cabs, and the red and black and white
ones too, are swarming streets and freeways honking
because Fuck’s become the katun’s face, Fuck is its
tongue out, its body weakened by, and by drink as well
as ignorance and indifference, with talking jukes of the
latest joke off a toke at every corner, and yes more and
more of us thinking suicide big time, and yet more and
more of us realizing, so far as those corporation nazis
crippling the back of the knees of any leap forward, he
didn’t off enough of them before Berlin finally gave up.

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