new poem by brigade member John Curl

AMERICAN OVERTURN

 

Overturn a brand new leaf

leaf through a dog-eared book

book the d.a. for felony graft

graft a plum branch onto a peach root

root out the causes of social strife

strive toward revelatory visions

envision the end of bureaucratic dictators

dictate a hundred songs about love

love the work you live

live for wholeness and light

light the fires of forgiveness

forgive the failings of your parents

parent your children to interconnections

interconnect compassion to your world

world consciousness overturns.

Over turning privatized commons

spurning career politicians

churning ownership patents

burning corporate papers

turning over unjust laws.

Now all things American overturn.

 

Seamstresses unravel socks

carpenters nail their hammers

omelets flip themselves over

houses balance on their roof ridges

tree roots stretch into the air

cumulous clouds billow into back yards

senior execs pull each others’ comb-overs

FBI agents bug each others’ phones

patrol officers club each other over the head

incumbent officeholders change their names

the president’s cabinet put on false mustaches

Chamber of Commerce stuffs a brown paper bag

Secretary of the Interior hides in the closet

head of the SEC slips through the airport in drag

board chairmen arrive in the Cayman Islands

all the payoffs of all the corporate lobbyists

can’t buy a jelly sandwich

citizens declare the two-party system under

arrest for impersonating democracy.

Over turning privatized commons

spurning career politicians

churning ownership patents

burning corporate papers

turning over unjust laws.

Now all things American overturn.

 

 

 

New image-poem by Melba Abela

new poem by brigade member Carol Denney

The Worst Opera


my fifteenth court appearance
was like watching
the worst opera ever produced
the worst libretto
with the worst timing
the most boring costumes
the most terrible singers
no harmony
no instruments
a lot of whispering
the paper rustling was
louder than the actors
the audience was only waiting
for their small part to be over
and then one by one
they would leave


Carol Denney  6/8/2012

"Casserole" by Gary Hicks

casserole

             for laurie

remember that scene in malcolm x
where malcolm and the fruit of islam
descend upon the police station
and particularly that historico-cinematic
moment when malcolm's black- gloved
hand twists rightward and the fruit
does a left-face and marches away
along with all of the masses who came
to the police station?
do you remember that you asked me
if i was crying and i replied that
i had something in my eye?

well, i've always had this problem
of having eye-cinders at political moments
those specs just keep showing up!
the revolutionary peoples constitutional congress
philadelphia labor day weekend 1970
michael cetawayo tabor keynoting in
the indoor gym
the justice department may 1971 when the
d.c.'s black cops in total mutinous disobedience
to their white commanders refusing
to attack a nonviolent demonstration the first legal martin luther king holiday
in san francisco with at least one hundred
and more likely two hundred thousand
marchers coming across the east bay bridge
from san jose on trains reserved by the unions.

it seems that i've had a goodly supply of eye-cinders
to cover my false-shame for disobeying the rule
that men don't cry and now here we are again
another film that of one half million quebecois
students and all of their allies banging pots and
pans and strumming any and all string instruments
and out numbering the total activist pool of occupy
in my country where on mayday in oakland
eye-cinders invaded again to the sight of a mere
seven thousand marchers.

so i'm resigned to having to keep in stock many many
eye-cinders because both rumor and official story
have it that i don't cry.

berkeley ca     6-2-2012

gary hicks

new poem by brigade member John Curl

American Make-Believe


Lips meet passionate lips
in the nuanced shadows
gorgeous bodies intertwined
ecstatic dance joyful tears
soulful communion
forever whispering
infinite vows devoted depths.

Flip on the lights
giant screen torn and ragged
musty stale popcorn
rancid imitation butter
rows of empty seats
spilled soda
garbage all over the floor
smells like piss.
American make-believe.

Grammas dry their tears
with candidates promises
scribbled on shredded ballots,
nominees all promising
home love integrity prosperity
bouquets of imaginary hot jobs
blueberry syrup avatars
on every cyber maple pancake
belief in change and bereavement,
a young couple on a first date
pulled over by officers
in front of the high-tech playground
for reasons unstated in the report,
find their fashion-statement purse
and plastic leather wallet confiscated
photoshopped evidence
planted in every pocket
their late-model legoland SUV hijacked
every secret digital code of decency
systematically violated
orifices stuffed with sweaty junk
and auctioned to the highest bidder
while the duly-elected mayor
restoring public order
describes the peaceful demonstration
as an organized conspiracy
of arson and looting,
but it’s only American make-believe.

In the wake of three weeks of
indiscriminate bombardment
and revenge killings
leaving the remnants of
the once-stately city
in control of stylish pimps
drugged lieutenants
spitting strawbosses
TV detectives
psychotic anchormen
corrupted weathergirls flush
with sunny gusts in the 10-day forecast
while vomit gas permeates
all the side streets
thousands wounded, unknown dead
removing children's souls
stealing fingers for souvenirs
the masked soldiers
open fire on the hospital,
the crowd scatters, hundreds trampled
she watches her friend’s leg blown off,
they stand for hours in the freezing rain
to exercise their sacred right to vote,
but just kidding,
it’s only American make-believe.

by John Curl

A new poem by brigade member Mahnaz Badihian

Red as Poems of Jack Hirschman in SF

Tell me David* what should I write  

For this last poem before the finish line of my MFA

What should I write so you do not step on its tail?

To do surgery on its limbs or even pull its teeth

Or even give it to Dorianne** to kill it!

In that case there are not many more new subjects

I just have to repeat myself on the subject of

Love, sex, food, lovers, loneliness, exile and Recycled Woman

But I am astounded by the vast number of things we can write about

Like the thirsty flowers in our backyard that no one waters

Or about my little dogs dead mother!

See we can scream in style but we will spell the wrong words again

I may learn the art of poetry, but I have still to learn

The language of poetry that speaks of humanity

We have written so many poems in our life

But maybe not enough about hunger and people who witness

The death of their loved ones due to the lack of food, water and medicine

We have not written enough about the big thieves, the heads of governments

Let my last poem be about more urgent issues than my sexuality

Depicting the unheard voice of people in the world who die everyday

In every land by tyrants and wars

I ask myself sometimes this one big question;

What is the use of our poems if it cannot feed one hungry mouth?

What is the use if our poems are not as red as poems of Jack Hirschman in SF

And we are only trying to pull those nonsense lines from the genitalia of white pages

What is the use if we do not understand other people’s pain in this world and

Our poems only sleep between the pampered pages of North American magazines

You are so quiet and mysterious David that one cannot pass

The dark shades of your glasses to get the clear answer and see your poetic thoughts

I can climb on the vastness of each page repeatedly

 Hoping it will take me to the high tower of poetry

 But only then we can see the difficulty one may have to get close to harmony

Let’s get out of our tight, lonely houses and reach out to the poetry of the people.

* David St.John, Poet

** Dorianne Laux, Poet

Mahnaz Badihian 

new poem by brigade member John Curl

FOR THE INNOCENTS



all who have ever heard the message of the crickets

we call on you

all who have ever felt the wind splashing cleanly in your face

we call on you

all who have ever loved someone of another race

we call on you

all who are, or are descendants of

wageslaves serfs slaves prisoners debtors tenants housewives foreigners

we call on you

all who believe in the inalienable human right of the oppressed to throw off their oppressions and oppressors

we call on you



the night of the shame beyond madness is upon us

the despisers of sunrise

musicians of the ghastly dance

sorcerers grislier than hollywood movies



the night of those whose unquenchable destruction gushes from rivers of self-hate

whose murderous passions warp from the slaughtered children inside themselves



Even as these innocents are cowardly murdered one by one on city streets,

their elder brothers' deaths thousands by thousands on far off colonial shores

are being brazenly plotted in conference rooms,

their families' destruction millions by millions in wageslave pauperdom

is being flauntingly conspired

in those same plush chairs



We call down the spirit of Harriet Tubman and Angelina Grimke

the voice of Frederick Douglass and William Lloyd Garrison

the wrath of Nat Turner and Elizabeth Gurley Flynn

the heart of Sojourner Truth and Martin Irons

the strength of Thomas Paine and W.E.B. DeBois

the balance of Martin Luther King and Mother Jones



race war . . imperialist war . . . class war . . .

what's it all for . . ?



all who have ever heard the message of the crickets

we call on you

listen to the evidence



all who have ever felt the wind splashing cleanly in your face

we call on you

pass sentence



all who have ever wept at the mercy of spring

we call on you

stand with folded arms as a surrounding wall and carry out the sentence



for the innocents.