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Author: Bartleby

A Name for Our Poetry Podcast

A Name for Our Poetry Podcast

A wolf howls in the night; your friends are gone and there’s bloody mud under your fingernails.
The coyotes shout the twisted moon; your love is gone and the trench is caving in.
Who will stop the evil?
Who will find the song to combine this troubled inland empire
into one spirit, one heart, one love, one calm and steady push
to a kinder, a gentler,
a more interesting, more creative, more joyful, more beautiful
life, land, world?

Poetry in the dark of night.
Poetry in the light of day.
Poetry in the heart of hearts.
The turning of the wheel.

Unstoppable Poetry:
Inevitable Poetry:
Relentless Poetry:
Bursting Poetry:
The kind that overtakes by sinking slender fingers deep down
into the place where the heart meets the mind meets the soul.

We Shall Know Commonwealth Again.
We’ll stand within ourselves straight and tall,
admitting the Truth of our common hold.

Some people, living large here in the freeworld,
say we’ve got to stop Trump,
keep the train upon the tracks.
Sure–but that’s not enough and if that is our sole goal we won’t even manage that.

When was it that the rich sat in their silverbirds,
looking down for the first scurries of the rebellion?

And how did the West avoid the Marx’s inevitable evolution?
Regulations contra world-shaking investments and other exploitations;
taxes that relieved the aristocracy of their excess and built roads, dams, parks,
schools, opportunities.
The GI bill.
Things like that; things we could do again.
But how? How to relax enough that we can all show up in the same room?
How to stop dreaming of perfect safeties, perfect securities, perfect attitudes, perfect victories;
and focus on the great progress readily available?

What do we agree on? We agree that, insofar as the economic and societal structures can with impunity allow it, we should all have the chance to unfold the Love within in a way that is great and glorious cool. We agree that, insofar as the economic and societal structures can with impunity allow it, people shouldn’t live in the chains of poverty, illness, ignorance. So then we just need to know: can we get away with both happiness and decency? Can we have a nation that is safe, secure, and full of beautiful possibilities for all of us? Actually, even before we answer that, we know we have to fight for that because unless we are clearly and solidly headed in that direction, the center fractures and people vote for salvations and condemnations: the panic wins and the train skips the tracks.

The thing I sense is that with steady hand, calm mind, and open heart, we can chart a course that is OK. But I worry that we will blow our hand because we lack the empathy-imagination to grasp that we are all in this together.

Possible names:
In this Together
Unstoppable Poetry
Bursting Poetry
We shall know Commonwealth
Tis not too Late
To Seek a Newer World

AMW/BW, the loneliest desperadoes ever to spin a six-shooter.
June 29, 2016

Afterward

Afterwards,
I settle down, hangdog.
Afterwards,
We call our wives, repentant.
Afterwards,
You bleed the hen, sickened.

It was some several months gone that I, having found a copy freebied along a Brooklyn road, read Tony Judt’s “Ill Fares the Land”, a book-length essay about the West’s (well, US and Europe) current (published 2010) predicament, how we’d gotten there, and how we could get to a better place. Several thoughts jutted out, caught my sleeve, tore my shirt. The above essay mentioned two of them: styling the US an “inland empire”; and the hypothesis that the US and some of Europe had avoided the supposedly inevitable capsize of the bourgeoisie by the proletariat by democratically choosing to redistribute wealth. It yesterday occurred to me, while conversing with a slight-but-curvy, slope-button-nosed, lizard-eyed young beauty sitting post-art and thus spattered with oil-based paint, that some European countries had succumbed not to the violent disaster that Marx predicted and celebrated, but to other violent disasters, and that the tab of these violent disasters must to some degree fall to the excesses of bourgeoisie privilege. Wasn’t the Great Depression a critical ingredient in the mood that gave Hitler a crowd? And wasn’t the Great Depression to no small degree the result of unregulated financial markets, and wasn’t this lack of regulation part of a general profiteering: the wealthy investment class reaping private rewards while shunting the risk off onto the collective?

Two other thoughts of Judt’s deathsdoor effort (he, dead the same year it was published, was dying of Lou Gehrig’s Disease when he wrote it) that stuck with me: philosophies of triumphant economic inevitability helped us dismantle the welfare state (this one I already know, Milton Friedman; it is what’s made me riff on Camus’s “the evil geniuses of our time are all philosophers” with “the evil geniuses of our time are all economists”; and, look here look here!, isn’t triumphant economic inevitablism ultimately the deadly trick within Marx’s philosophy: isn’t it that mixture of grandeur and certainty that makes Marxism into an intellectual religion disconnected from living breathing humans–and isn’t such folly just as much folly when it comes from the right as when it comes from the left?); and the 60s/70s focus on identity-politics, coupled with the lazy lux of growing up in a nice big safety-net and middle-class boom, took the youths’ eyes off economic justice and helped us dismantle the welfare state.

Let me look a scorched-earth second at this latter thought of the departing historian. He particularly bemoans the phenomenon of minorities (he particularly mentions blacks and Jews; he was Jewish) joining fraternities of others in their ethnic/racial groups and majoring in studies focused on the history of their ethnic/racial groups. College is for going beyond the narrow definitions of self provided by such tribalisms is my understanding of his discontent. And feminism is in there somewhere too. Look at me and you, we are the same thing; my politics is mistaken if it doesn’t see that, but it isn’t just the right that can fail to grasp the ultimate sameness of human stuff, and Judt was, per my memory of my understanding of his book, unhappy with what he saw as the tendency of the 60s/70s left and thus the youthful energy of the 60s/70s to think so much on social justice that they forgot about economic justice for all groups.

Not that social justice for all isn’t important, but that for the collective to prosper, social justice and concerns for minorities needs to be paired with physical and economic security for all. And identity politics is not really that great for anybody (here I may be adding details not found in this book read some months ago): a human’s politics need to remain grounded in the understanding that we are all essentially the same–otherwise the common cause and nobler path is lost to angry struts and narrow group-thinks, us-vs-themisms, and other kinds of boredom disguised as being-real: we are all in this together and while it is true that a sustainable success requires that black kids from poorer parts of rusting belt towns end up winning; it is equally true that that it also requires that white kids from bummed out veins of coal country end up winning; as well as all the other racial groups, ethnic backgrounds, economic spots.

None of us are perfect; none of us grasp with perfect empathy the struggles of others, but playing up those imperfections and the cracks in others they sometimes cause hides the more promising but also more demanding truth: we all have at least some inkling of and compassion for the straights of other people, and we both can and must care enough about our fellow citizens to accept them and their perspectives as fundamentally equal to us and our vantage points. With “fundamentally equal” I do not mean that everyone is as fit for every task or every decision as everyone else. I mean that we all come from the same place; we all have the same basic innerworld of these various human longings shot through with the bright-light sense that we creatures matter and what we say and do matters and this Love matters; and we all are headed to the same place (some theologians might disagree this final point, but let us all at least agree that we will someday die and that what comes next plays by rules where money, musculature, intelligence, personality, social circles, math skills, philosophical essay writing, and so on disappear and each of us is left with only what one’s really become at the point of our physical/intellectual/emotional dissolution). With “fundamental equals” I mean that we are enough alike and enough bound up with one another that we cannot do what is best for ourselves without helping others do what is best for them.

The nation will fracture into angry clumps to the degree the center does not look each of us in the eye, human-to-human.

I read with interest the day other an article by NY Times columnist David Brooks. In an earlier article, he’d said that he had allowed himself, ensconced in elitedom, to lose touch with the trials and tribulations of many US Americans, and so he and others like him were partially responsible for the Trump disaster; and so now he must dedicate himself to the task of reaching out to everyone in the country (Something like that anyway), which I feel is a good goal for a public intellectual. Anyway, his column of my yesterday was about how Trump is fundamentally realigning the political debate in the nation: before it was about the size of government, now it is about openness. He said that of course he thought we needed to side with openness and that globalization will help us all economically (he included a couple facts about how it had raised our incomes and how the currently pillared Pacific Trade Agreement would raise it more) as long as we find a way to equip the momentary losers in the evolving economy to succeed. Of course, of course! And even without a clear economic advantage to free trade, there’s the diplomatic benefits of hearty economic relations between lands. On the other hand, should we really be encouraging poorer nations to work their people 12 hours a day for low wages? But then maybe the wages are better and the hours the same as what they’d been doing way back when, so–. So lots of different things to talk about.

US business interests really both hoarded and at its cake for the longest time now. They got free trade without the redistribution necessary for it to actually benefit everyone. When the US found the New Deal–a great redistribution of wealth that built roads, educations, and ultimately lives–it was to some degree a decision by the elites to spread the wealth around and thus avoid the disaster of rebellion. Around the same time, Russia did fall from monarchial tyranny into communist tyranny; and Nazi Germany fell from a sputtering democracy into a totalitarian state whose appeal was pride in “the folk” and contempt for whoever didn’t make the count as “the folk”. Right now we have–at least in the US–apparently reached a tilting point reminiscent of the one that gave rise to the regulations and safety nets created in the 40s, 50s, 60s, and steadily dismantled starting in the 80s. Brooks supposes Trump’s lean towards xenophobia, misogyny, and racism will keep him from winning the race; but he warns that another will take Trump’s isolationism, his trade-hating, his border-shutting, his zero-sumism (as in “win win” is impossible–a ‘fraidy cat unimaginative helterskelter fantasy hiding place disguised as “realism”), trim a bit of the obvious meanness and dilettantism, and win. We in the US who can find it in our hearts to believe in the chance of a center, of togetherness, of imperfect but real progress for all of us–this is the time to shout out our faith and to demand that our government find a way to make the economic realities and possibilities of our day work for all of us.

Which brings us to the final piece of Judd’s dying words that extra-resonated with me: citizens in countries like the US and Great Britain (places where claiming the political process is completely hopeless requires a cynicism and flippancy so pouty and negligent that I think it appropriate to at least begin speaking of the real evil of being a big baby) can work together to change their country’s trajectory and they have a duty a duty a duty to do so. And the way to do that is to embrace the political process and accept the challenge of discussing the nuts and bolts of policy decisions. Babies! A bunch of squabbling, he-hit-me-first-no-he-hit-me-first babies! Agghh! You drive me crazy!

Simmer down. OK. OK. We need the better elements within ourselves to enjoy politics again–instead of just our get-offs on fighting and crushing and strutting and lamenting to enjoy politics. And we need to stop letting the political process live in the side-track of mindlessly repeated talking-points and mindless screaming side-taking. But that’s OK, because there’s a way to correct both those errors at once: we need to start making a safe and fun space for people to talk about the details of policy decisions. Not these stupid roundtable argument where everyone goes home believing in the same preconceived notions they came with. And not quite these political comedy shows tuned in by one side or the other and also putting everyone to bed with the comfy certainty that, though our country is doomed, it is fault of the “other side” (Note: some of these political comedy shows are more helpful than others; more helpful is honest playful discussion; much less helpful and indeed part of the evil downhill rolling snowball is standard mockery). A place to have fun with the nuts and bolts of policy ideas; of budgets; of trade-offs. We cannot continue to hide behind the “experts” of our choosing–the “other side” just chooses different experts: perhaps those experts are baloney, but we cannot rightly say that without taking some time to understand the topic.

I don’t know how to do this. Suggesting it makes me think of various blowhard fools I’ve encountered reading articles by thinkers who agree with them and going on about how we all need to do the research and think for themselves like they do. Ah well, we can but try: despairing in the supposed impossibility of good conduct and/or good outcomes is ultimately just as counterproductive (read: evil) as pouting over the supposed impossibility of good conduct and/or good outcomes. We can try to talk for real with one another.

How to do it? You can’t let just anybody say anything. That view of what is required for a free exchange of ideas just ends up filling the air with loud certainties. Oh thick, un-breathe-able, immobile, useless humidity!: an infiniti of options equals, for finite creaturethings, no options. You can’t let your prejudices oversway you, but you can’t let other people’s prejudices oversway you either. How do we do this? And remember: it has to be fun for everybody–overseriousness will make the participants lose sight of the relative nature of their knowledge and wisdom and it will also similarly lame the excellence of the audience. But note also the necessity of some seriousness and some type of elitism: while one cannot have any useful knowledge or real wisdom without insight into the limits of those goods, some ideas, attitudes, and feelings are better than others, which is to say: degrees of knowledge and wisdom exist and are very important.

There are no white people and no black people, no Asians, no Indian Indians, and no American Indians. We all slide together in personalities, temperaments, types and degrees of intelligents–all that stuff is varied within races, not across races. Who knew? The only way you really learn it is by interacting with a bunch of people with different skin colors and facial features; over time it just sinks in undeniably deep that you see patterns in thought and emotion in human beings within and not between races.

There is here in the world no good guy, no bad guy; no hero and no villain. There are some bad ideas, some bad feelings–some bad strands within the flowing togetherness that is the Reality of the human experience.

Whatever. The thing that here must happen is social justice and economic justice together. We must have both the right attitude and the right management. It is terrifying evil for human organizations to slide into chaos, which is another word for death to society, to rights, to chances. We must maintain calm and dignity and work for steady progress on all fronts. The danger of youth is to throw it all away for swelling heroisms and dreams of victory. The danger of old age is to throw it all away for grand pouts and dreams of escape. We must come together and ask together for the Truth. We already know the Truth; the Truth is we’re all in this together and we can manage ourselves more or less wisely and the decisive aspect is how much space we allow for within each individual: we all need enough security, calmness, time, patience, energy, love to live for real–we all need to learn, work, think, grow, have fun, take ourselves and others seriously.

Give me a poetry that tears the walls down. Give me a poetry that frees our minds and hearts by melting lies and exploding Truth. POW! The Power of the Word.

Give me a poetry podcast that contemplates the power of the word for good and for evil. Give me a poetry podcast that dances, that is fun, that plays, that thinks and feels together, that knows we are all in this together and that seeks for the words that stop the evil and embolden the Good.

AMW/BW, the one from small Midwestern town Pennsylvania, the other from all across the possibilities; the one suntanned, the other transparent.
God forgive them, God help them, God explode them and gather the pieces to God’s bosom, where this begins, where this must end.

Brexit Two

Brexit Two

Majority rules best buffered by
professionals.
Careers secured in status quo and thus bound
in slower, more clunking governance,
they trade for madcap the measured grind,
avoiding the worst.

The citizenry has a role: a stolid stand–
in lines we wait, on corners we chat and laugh,
inside we tuck up with book, TV, friend:
in varied poses holding forth for free;
we voting, watching, thinking folk
build groundswell knowledge here:
important job–some knowledges more true
than others, some better than others too.

BW/AMW 6/27/2016

Explanation for Brexit Poem

Not, dear ones, so much that I, vaunting the bounds,
Pretend that I know the bestest course for this land
Across the sea and paced apart from my native;
I merely think, with humble hand on gracious hip,
That choices great are best collaborated
between career ‘ticians and us of necessity
much distracted, and something removed workadays.
That, anyway, was the thought I had
And in verse voiced
To form a poem
One day ago

BW/AMW 6/28/2016; updated 6/29/2016

The Player Loses a Round

The Player Loses a Round

That’s all right,
OK, we’re still rolling,
we’re still drivin’ on.

In my dark tone plaid pants
and pink polo shirt,
smack’n the sidewalks with white
leather square-topped long-toed shoes.

Not quite as interested and sympathetic
as I was, you see, supposed to be–
falling, then, to jabber and to jaw,
jus’ mostly scramblin’
for a way past her troubles
into her giggle, smile, safety net.

All right, so she, pale, in light
airy, matching shirt and shorts–
white with jungle leaves in greens
like normal, but then purples, reds
other edges, colors that give one pause–,
so she, with freckles on pixie nose,
takes off without a word,
having skipped your open palm.

Poor guy! Ah gee! It’s tough out there
in the wild rough old lonesome world!
Good thing you’ve got your baby-doll
back home to treat you right.
The wisdom of a back-up!
You’ll be on your feet again soon enough.

The wisdom of a back-up face, hands,
butt, chest, center, voice and spirit–
a girl who sweetly calls your name,
who schedules with your family,
who reminds you about recycling,
and loves you all the time.

AMW/BW

Brexit, and the rest

Brexit, and the rest

I like my old folks anxious more’n wild.
In 1945 full half of you
were bled out rotting in the fields or ‘neath
our rubbled village, town, city too.

I like my old men worried, remembering the fall;
I like my old ladies broad, not silly tall;
I like my young ones wary watching taunts,
puffed fervors, thoughtless plots, vision in the gloat.

I need my people looking for the pit
where we’d toss our calm, our steady gentle hands
till blood and mud were one and t’was no stopping it.

The pouty vote and protest strut with arms
like chicken wings can’t save our souls or bind
what shake and rattle fold all wildly out.

The center must hold!
The center must deepen and widen;
the center must deliver.
The center must answer the call–
to form a juster course
for us people, our thoughts, purposes and passions.

Peace seems unavoidable
when its always there–
salty warm, freshly sweet–
and spiced betimes with gadgets great,
shows hilarious, pundits us all-knowing.

Great whale must swim a fathom deep,
must round the cold dark world;
thick cordy lips, a hide blue rubber steel.
Great whale humps through the secret sea,
alone quiet empty kind of free.

AMW/BW

Babe on the train

Babe on the train

You see her standing there,
babe on the train.
She’s wearing loose white slacks
of some material between sweats and canvas
and a pink white-striped cotton shirt.
Her ass is full in every way–
with large dimples in the fatty musculature.
Her tits hang low and sharp,
like torpedoes diving slant–
a revelation, an enlightenment:
an answer to the question you
can’t quite voice.

Narrow waist.

Her nose a little Greek; her cheeks a little
high-Cherokee; her face a little tanned;
her eyes a soft sparkled Mediterranean vacation.

Gabbing away, leaning over the upright luggage backs;
moving a ring off and on again her well-shaped,
sweet-tanned straight-laced fingers;
talking to a tortoise-freckled 40s tallthin blond-red.
Laughing; changing position; bending forward
haunches back; straightening up;
fiddling with her hair.
Only looking your way that once;
you let her see the longing,
the desire-swept tilted-head soft-eyed look-up;
she responds with a sympathetic eye-bat,
an understanding lip-purse.

Her hair rich thick brown river;
bunched up into a gush,
then split in two lilting falls–
played with by those hands.

I call her a babe; but that’s–
she’s gotta be the most wonderful,
the most sweetest, charming,
fascinating, precious–
in nowise vapid unawares
or anything but keen reals–
young woman I’ll ever side-slip past.

Let it pass; let it go; the painted slider
strains against the darkstill pond,
his wrinkly neck snorkled up.
You can’t have them all!
Sigh.

AMW/BW

He speaks of the hurt

He speaks of the hurt

I knew a man,
name was Jimmy gone get me,
lived down red shack lane,
kept a gerbil on a wheel,
a big-hair pinup on a wall.

I knew this guy,
name of Jimmy gone get me.
I see’m there shuffle down
the big-rock white road–
that alley way back ‘hind
the red brick row houses
three stories tall
ripples off red brick plant–
fackry big as the town.

I knew this guy,
Jimmy gone get me
gett’in older in the alleyway.
“Boys,” he says–
back then we were white
and our hair all soft
straw falling odds and evens–
“Yer jus boys–lads really–.
Ye can’t grasp it. Naw, can’t.
Still, all the same;
I’m gonna tell you
’bout this hurt.”

It seems it was wide
and deep
and sick
and old
and locked
and stored
and kept
and rich
and loud
and angry
and pathetic
and impossible
and proud
and desperate
wounded,
wolf caught in a trap,
whimpering
and gnawing half-heartedly
at its poor befangled
leg.

But it was also a form of radiation that blared from his gut through his chest, shoulders, neck, head, eyes–blared out a kind of aching nausea full of shame and confusion, full of trick mirrors and deadend plywood mazeways in a dusty rickety shack sprawling on and on, always expanding more so as to keep you full on lost–no matter how you rushed and raced and tried–oh you tried!

AMW/BW

Burn out Boy of the Barrio

Burn out Boy of the Barrio

I got the love,
but nowhere to put it.
I got the fire,
but it’s burning my floorboard out–
like the 67 Chevy long road sedan.
Dad fixed an old license plate
with wire
to patch the hole by the accelerator.

I got the spirit,
but not the space to unfold it.
I got the heart,
but not the strength
to show
share
live it on out.

I’m the burned out boy of the barrio.
Will I, mussed strand hair,
restaurant greased slacks,
fall by the wayside,
unrequested
opening Mickey D doors
unasked
pointing out directions
unheard
accepting tips.

I’m the burned out boy of the barrio.
Will I, fingers gray dirt caked,
sweatshirt and jeans worn and powdered,
work for the man,
drink with the boys,
come home to the bitch,
or to the woman–
come home to the fight,
or to the peace–
who am I now?
Burned out boy of the barrio.

Us losers,
we become our retreats.
Us failures,
we become our faces.
Burnt out,
left behind,
a never mind–
but that’s not the end.
Measure me
by the size
of my love
and the shape
of my life.

Disappointment in the family den,
called-out loudmouth,
caught-out daredevil–
OK, fine,
with the lines wearing through
and the mojo fizzing gone.
OK, fine,
But what’re you gonna do about it,
that’s what I’d like to know.

There’s still the walk
along the dock,
still the ships swaying
in the cupping waves,
still the ones who
hear what I say
see what I do
know where I stand.

Burned out boy of the barrio,
but that’s not the issue now.
Will my face crease
smile or frown
squished or open eyes
open or closed?

A man longs for his woman.
Let him forget the wishes
that don’t mean much.
Let him find the path
the place
the people
the person
that help him.
Help him, God around,
find his
keep on keep’in on.

AMW/BW

Look, Lady

Look, Lady

Look, Lady
Formed by responding in-line to the first part of Blow, Bugle Blow

Her hair rich dark choc’late thick,
Her snowy summits coolly yearning,
She long looks wide the countryside
To spot straw lad of red cheeks burning.

Burst beauty, burst, set the green fields falling,
Stop beauty; answer; a free day fair day calling.

O hark, O hear, yet far yet near,
Inside, outside; all in all whirling!
Ah hope-swept glance, ah self-caught prance.
The slippered lady mirth-lipped looking!

Look, swoop a breathe–the fresh hearts leaping
Reach, lady; answer, your bright eyes keeping.

AW/BW

Blow, Bugle Blow
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

The splendour falls on castle walls
Her hair rich like choc’late’s thick,
And snowy summits old in story :
Her snowy summits coolly yearning,
The long light shakes across the lakes,
She long looks wide the countryside
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
To spot straw lad of red cheeks burning.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,

Burst beauty, burst, set the green fields falling,
Stop beauty ; answer, it’s calling, calling, calling.

O hark, O hear ! how thin and clear,
O hark, O hear, yet far yet near,
And thinner, clearer, farther going !
Inside, outside, all in all whirling!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
Ah hope-swept glance, ah self-caught prance.
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing !
The slippered lady mirth-lipped looking!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying :

Look, let it breathe, the fresh hearts leaping
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

Reach, lady; answer, your brights keeping, keeping, keeping.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river :
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

Race, a Public Service Announcement

Race, a Public Service Announcement

Just so you know:
Race is a social construct.
That’s all.
Emotionally/Mentally, it isn’t anything–
we all slide together there, in the loci of our,
you know, humanity.
Can’t be helped.
That’s all.
Nothing to see here.
Oh well.
All those theories; all that research; all that yearning searching:
oh well,
it’s better this way–
the way it actually is.

AMW / BW

The Theory of Poetry Podcasts

The Theory of Poetry Podcasts

A theoretical problem, a math problem:

Suppose one were to gather together a few strands of the unruly information age and knit them together into a poetry podcast, taped and broadcast once per lunar month. Is it possible to configure this enterprise in a way that is particularly worthwhile?

It was Kwizsler who provided the first solution to this problem. The world would have to wait another 3.45928 centuries for Kamarati’s proof that there were in fact infinite solutions to the problem, and that each problem was a fractal petal off of the Kwizsler’s original, old-fashioned, antiquated, dusty, backroom solution.

But what happens when we add the following detail:

The founders must be two different people–one who’s first suggestion is that the poetry club get cohesiveness by cleaving to poems involving New York City; and one who’s first instinct is to leap atop the long, beerhall-style oak table and, after summarily–with his arms up like bat wings and his lips disdainfully curled and eyes painfully scrunched like a valley girl inching past a homeless person–pushes everyones’ food and drink onto the floor with the tip of his beige, sneaker-shaped walking shoes, declare:

New York City has enough memorabilia, enough fanware, enough paraphernalia!

In this world evil lurks among us. The devil dog runs amok. With foam swilled over yellow jag-snag teeth, it haunts the edges of each human twist and turn! Aye, it dogs us!; it sneaks into each every crevice of our individual and collective thought, perverting, dragging down, making sick, puking raw right through!

And you’d speak of pleasant clubs with tame, gentle edifications! The aircraft carrier’s hook catches the landing jet–time is short. For as long as I’ve been sort of paying attention (which is usually all I’ve been able to stomach), I’ve watched flailing, violent, dyspeptic, ulcerated chaos advance. I’ve watched my world become more and more a dying giant squid, robbed of its water and its depth; its great yellow mirror-eye cracked with hopeless choked-out panic; its unweildy red, flabby-flapping tentacles–with their poignant rose-bud tips–lashing out every which way frantic and pathetic.

And I’ve thought that I should do something about this! But what? About what? What is going on? Why do I feel so queasy every time I turn on the TV? Is it really any worse than before? Isn’t this actually going pretty well? Order’s maintained pretty solidly and you’re allowed to say things–no matter how insightful or idiotic–about the government and society. So it’s basically OK, right? And what, I mean, what is it supposed to look like? What can it look like? But–well, I just can’t shake the sense that we are focusing on spectacle instead of substance, and I cannot help but recall ‘Cabaret’s’ thesis that it was such hiding in spectacle that allowed the Germans to slide themselves down the gullet of Naziism. Not that we’re necessarily going to start rounding up and exterminating millions, but that we’re going in the wrong direction and at some point you’ve slid so far down the wrong way that you can’t get back to decent. Also, I think that we as a nation actually could talk and come up with workable policies, but we’ve decided it feels safer to cocoon ourselves into little group-think echo chambers–complete with comedians who are much better at seeing the ridiculousness of the other side than of our milky-gauzy home. Well, there’s that general critique, and then there’s my own partisanship: I cannot fathom Republicans anymore.

The club I dream of will help me get some purchase on this sorrow–some way to push against the evil in me and in the collective; some way to get not some set of pre-cherished ideas and attitudes to win, but to get good ideas and real kindness to more and more guide myself and the collective. The more corrupt a place is, the easier it is to be cruel and selfish and hard-hearted and close-minded, and the harder it is to be kind and generous and gentle-hearted and open-minded. The more corruption in an individual, the more easily those soul-ignoring ignobilities can squeeze internal awareness and honesty out; and the harder it is for the easy-flowing joy to take back conscious territory. Likewise in a society/government–the more corrupt a society/government is, the easier it is to live happy and comfortable there while being indecent; and the harder it is to live happy, comfortable, and decent. The more corrupt a society/government is, the more it forces you to choose between happiness and decency. But be careful young rebel!: one of the show-off motor’s favorite tricks is to pretend that your setting is more corrupt than it is. Sit back, relax, pull back your shoulders, open your chest: helping begins with an honest critique, which includes admitting what is good that you already have and shouldn’t toss out–there’s nothing heroic about pouting and praying for chaos: chaos is not a safe place to unfold your heart and mind and body; chaos is a brutal massacre.

How can we move towards less individual and collective corruption? No, but for real!

This must be the quest of our joint venture. Otherwise, what’s the point?

What is a good poem? What is it’s relationship to Truth = Beauty = Goodness = Justice? What are the poems that will help as individuals and as groups to grow in wisdom–to shake off the stupid-jeer and the pouty-swarm, to circle round again and dip back into love? What poems can we as a nation use to start moving together towards the common reality?

I think our quest should be poems that help us as individuals and groups live more fully and well, more joyfully, more honestly, more life-overflowingly. What poems do that? Why? How? And how to get them out so that, like love bombs, they do the maximum damage to wrongheadness within ourselves and our shared dreaming space?

AMW/BW