This Poem was Submitted By: David S Harewood On Date: 2001-01-20 19:07:13 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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this is still a page piece,

                            penumbras and exclamations      peyote & amphetamines and my own pen still won't work for the pictureframes & all too many wds tis, tis yes, less a vision than sound                    and a breath since i call myself a writer and I scream  and tell stories through someone else's voices. i know the words, the phrases, and the moves to set the revolution. A Heron alarm put out a score of hippies and most of their yuppie children rebelled               and the writer became his own voice,               talked about April & only a few cared to know--                                               "What in the hell"--               since he lost fascism & told us he hadn't               a grasp of politics; prettily asked her if he could--                                               "does this have to do with me?"                                                  (i don't know, man: this is page poetry,                                                   they still joke about my talent,)               so il migrio asshole sailed into Italy,               talked about his FRIEND over the radio!                                             "It's sinister," I laughed, 'cause that's another word altogether,                       I swore by the mighty Coltrane                       and wondered if the church's bricks are for sale,                       if they've slid off into some Pacific bank and                        are being auctioned off for bar-lines,                       if another spring--                                                   (man, I'm telling you, they're just talkin':                                                          this is a page piece.)                --get rid of all this prufrockian garble and take her home.                  & set the McCarthyites going.                A Zimmerman turns Christian, rails Paterson                 for a hurricane,                finds a man without my pretense,                     (and i'm still calling myself a poet!)                finds the city in a man, is a man,                                             & waits for #35 to take him home.

Copyright © January 2001 David S Harewood

Additional Notes:
I'm baaaaaaaaack!

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