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.

new poem by brigade member A. Nora Claypoole

This poem is from the new poetry collection  

embroidered maps, de los muertos

by a. nora claypoole

a wave was in her*

by a. nora claypoole

for Louise Bryant  and her daughter Anne Moen Bullitt

I.

swept away. a diva by her dad

under the aged bristles of gossip

their was no talk of a mother

there was no talk of her art

there was a quote in the daily news

about father is and god and freud applauded.

forgotten.  the preface

mother is my friend.

mother is a balloon

mother has bird’s nests in her belly

buttoned silent.  buttoned to rittenhouse square

her legacy of banishment was having a daughter

and loving a woman.  the paradox perplexes

the paradox exists

the paradox resists

the mother was a balloon

the mother was owned

by a man, with stolen rings

the mother wrote. her chimes

as  requiem to masses

bolshevik revivals an elixir to his kiss

collected countries in the hem of her dress

a poem was written. 

go to hell

II.

he asked for an epitaph and she laughed

a wave was in her then

it drowned the sins she hoped her daughter

would rename

her daughter

had her name and died inside her

god. as a friend to none

of the little sisters

 of saint veronica

of the assumption

was, she never loved

little sisters,  of mercy

shaved, veiled, chaste

thank her with a statue

 found broken in a box

III.

out west. her first paper.

 writing  about the klamath

modoc indians.  captain jack

her ikon.  hung by whites,

 scalped.  by her own people.

overseas.

a wave was in her.

IV.

not even fathers of the chiefs could save her

legacy is a refrain erased from music sheets

still shuffled on a piano sent East all the way from oregon.

today there is music in the village

* from “My Epitaph” by Louise Bryant
www.butterflywritingbio.blogspot.com