mind stuff is fixed in the ideal, poetry gives life to ideas. if ideas are a music, then poetry is the music inside music.
you can make me the center of your target zone;
drop the bomb down, you can bomb on my home.
separate my shin from inside my skin…
just want some liebensraum, now, is that a sin??
I’m a hiroshima woman, i like to rock and roll…
blast your isotopic fission, umm, strip me to the bone.
well, it’s shred me up,
and nuke me down.
pulverize my head
with the rest of the town.
turn me into plasma; gamma x-ray…
nuke those folks,
i didn’t like them anyway.
red cloud in the sky,
have a hiroshima day.
and, here’s some more stuff i gotta say,
in a jail house rock kind of way:
now, tojo told me, “honey,
‘need more stuff in Japan!
hell with roosevelt, got to break out the ban:
get me back to the safety of the frying pan!
and, i really need all them sumatra monkey glands…”
let’s fook. everybody, let’s fukushima!!
“nuclear is bad, bad yankeeees!!”
— umm, hitler said to hiro,
“turn the bums to glue.”
hiro said to tojo,
“cat, that’s what you should do,
cause, that whole population of China
don’t do what i say….!”
… oh, been to nanking,
watched’um chop some heads.
army boys be thrifty,
did not waste no lead.
and, some things,
you know they never go away:
have a hiro, i mean a foo-koo-shima day.
the sea is full tonight,
running currents from asia —
round and serene — it flows
from japan — fukushima,
where death grows in water
so green and still —
deep wells with melting rods, containers,
melting boy and girl —
isotopes eating the land.
a bird, a land bird,
floats upon strontium;
spirit on the sea. and, i see outside, the vivid sunset
reminds me of melting worlds now, fire and death;
and, i cannot shake the fear that my bones
are filling with poison: when i love in you,
i am giving you cesium. i cannot love you anymore;
i cannot kill.
i want to sing a floating song in the wind,
but, the waves and clouds spiral into cesium;
children will die,
birds will die. i want to sing a song
that shouts out happiness — but, the liquid
caress of radioactive water bathes hilo,
covers the beach at waikiki —
the sands, the trees; the people. children
will play, mothers will nurse, people will vote, happy
to pick their team for the series.
leaders of the world, politicians — labor, communist,
fascist, republican realists, democrat souls: vanity boys
and girls. they didn’t tell you? did you ask?
i want to sing a song where i’m not afraid,
afraid to look outside, green planet…
to walk downtown and not look down,
to not have to see the pain,
they know they’re dying — the food, the air and water.
because, the sky would be blue;
birds from far away…
most of what poetry is is presentation, as though the poem were standing there in your head and telling itself in a certain way. imagine your poem reading itself in front of congress, in a macdonalds, at a beatnik coffee house… or, even more so, intimately, sharing itself with sylvia plath or ezra pound or robin williams. your integrity is how much the ego you, as poet, would try to bend or style the poem to fit the audience, and you shouldn’t have to. for one thing, you believe in the truth of your poem as poetry, and on the other, that it’s up to the audience to combine itself with you. if the poem is good, if it’s written only as it should be written, like you’ve added a new gem or star or flower to the world, then, what? that’s the truth, isn’t it? that you’d dismiss someone coming to the beach and complaining there’s no clowns.
the last moment of the work has to come by accident. if you’re constantly concerned about having your reader like you and keep contact with you, that moment will never come and your work will be transactional utility grade typing.
chance may rule, but chance has to rule on something. writers who say that ‘it’s all chance, what’s to say what art is’, are only as right as their work. people get up at slams and say, ‘give me a phrase and i’ll make a poem on it’ are working the audience, a con, a thug move from a thug soul.
a poet, you write yourself out of your own stupid self-referencing emo bubble and begin to write as two people — one looking at what you love, and the other watching you write. there’s no way to turn the poem into just another opinionated creig’s list ad for the nobel prize.
writing yourself out of your self-love certainty, that’s to enter empson’s 7th kind of ambiguity, where you float in your language rather than using it to scrub your guilty conscience and sense of embarrassment away, by writing what you couldn’t say to someone to their face cause you’re just chicken… ‘unkown’. and why most things posted in pop poetry sites are stories with wheel-chair ramps so the semi-literate can get a story buzz without too much reading.