Grassroots

A poem for recent frustrations
inspired by discussions in English,
by the way ink smells on the paper,
and by apathy.

Grassroots
I.
I have seen Buddha, my divination,
and the pregnant men of tomorrow
at a local Chinese restaurant
down the street
from where I live.

He works behind the counter
handing out fortunes and duck sauce.
There are spelling errors on the menu, and
on the outside sign.
China Cok, is the name of the
eatery, a hybrid between
wok and cook.
But, I cannot tell my Buddha
of the American harshness
or mistake;
the joke that ensues.
For the same reason
that I cannot tell him about a book I read last year
dealing with young prostitutes.
And I cannot tell him that when I imagined
the diner and bathroom where the girls
drank perfume to smell better and
cut their hair for infertility,
the main setting of the book—
that I saw his establishment instead.
And he was just as much of a character
as the young Lolitas.

II.
The day I turned fifteen, I met a rifle.
He was standing in between the frozen food aisles,
looking and longing for permafrosted delicacies.
Little pizzas balanced softly on bagels.
We made small talk about the difference between
pizza bites and pockets, and then he told me
that we had met before.
He looked at me straight in the
eye, his barrel lined up with
my cornea, and shook my hand.
He said, I have felt these same plump
Fingers run happy and delighted over my
trigger. I have had them hold that dangling
piece of metal before. They have stroked in
delight at the thought of ammunition
and knew when I was sticky and ripe.

III.
There is a dream that
I have where we’ve all
turned into machines:
simple and complex.
Women have bicycles for breasts and
Advertisements for thighs.
Men have natural metals
like iron, turn to ore in their blood.
My hair is composed of whipping cords and wires;
my head a monitor.
We’re giants.

I see everything in the dream through eyes
that aren’t really eyes but sockets, light sockets.
And they try to, but can’t see real things,
only stiff metal dust
thrust into them in the form
of plugs and powercords;
Sparks, and Lights.
I can only see fireworks and flashy things
The sparklers of everyone I know,
and their fading fizzle as they go out.

------------------

Frustration of things unseen:
Listen to the Talking Heads
and read these lyrics
(Life During Wartime)

The Mountain Goats have a song in which they make a list reasons why it is a good idea to freeze to death. I can only think of one:
I wouldn't feel the heat of fire (arms and breath).

Path of least resistence is what makes the river grow crooked

After reading the January 22nd issue of the New Yorker, I came upon an article on a man by the name of Adam Gadahn .
Also known as Azzam the American. Adam grew up in California where the sun always shines with his parents and goats.
Then Adam let the sands of things pull at him in confusion and after a stint with Christian death metal, he converted to Islam, and before long was in Pakistan as a groupie of some of the hardest hitting men in the terroism industry. He started translating and making tapes, airing them, and becoming a spokesperson for different anti-American organizations. He became an expatriate quickly and now declares that America's streets will soon run red with the blood of the sinners and capitalists and those in doubt and denial of their higher duty and calling to Allah.
There is something about Adam and expatriates in general that intrigue me immensely. After studying Ezra Pound and his stint of welcoming fascism, I've been thinking about the idea of turning away from your culture and home, native tongue, and making such an extreme exodus of the soul.
In comparison to Uncle Walt, who embraced and hugged every thought and syllable of America, these commuters are eye catching. Or maybe Keourac, who took her and her crazy nights, and loved the spontaneity of all America's fuckups and dreams, no matter how haphazordous and intoxicating they were. Surely Adam isn't the poet these previous men were. Surely there is something to reason why out of a seemingly normal Jewish household, he was the only out of three children that turned extremeist.


I can see Adam being a character in this all. Here with the wires and the machines, he, Walt, Ezra, Allen, and I will all sit around and have coffee. Maybe Adam doesn't drink coffee, but nevertheless, we'll sit around and do what we do as Flynn says.
I don't see Pound as a bad guy, so I don't know how I would see Adam as one.
Maybe I don't have an allegiance anymore, althought I've always thought I did.
Maybe I should plegde to people now instead of cloth, and that way try to figure out who's side anyone is on.

I'm composing a one-act play and I think I just got my antagonist.