When the corn is highwe read about it but never saw it. now it is dark when i am going home.
i wonder how will america pay the rent, the bills owed? i wonder, often.
home i am going
when dark it is; i wonder, how will america capture me?
will theirs be rail cars, boxes with no entrance or exit?
will they torture me? surely, for they have tortured me already;
this is the concentration camp cemetery café cordoned-off;
this is bulls-on parade; this is socks-in the mouths, this is wiring
close to bodies arms and shanks with duct tape.
this is politics. this is. this is! this is the way of the waves that
crush the quiet majority. this is the war on our american people,
a way they take the corn and kill it. but take me down to paradise;
leave me there, rolling stone, as soon as possible.
always strive and prosper? i can’t; i’m being… tortured.
Derelict but wrestlershe pawns the socks her wrestler husband gave her as i walk
towards it. it is darkness that i walk towards,
what the darkest flint cannot keep in. it is the pawing of the masses,
derelict, but the wrestler is shining, now. he is the one
who will stop up the drains in grover, in nipomo,
north of chi but many miles away from home -- long,
long gone, away from home.
she paws at the scarlet heather, unhappy but with him.
she has him to thank for the coming darkened revolution,
which is ‘it,’ underlined, under-scored, under funded,
and so the government takes them into the government’s land,
and weeps along with them. they see elephants and all sorts
of dorsal fins in the mixtape. they don’t wish to make
sense of the hot crossed buns; they are illegal! illegal!
they’re stalling-out like fighters-of-germany,
and soon they will fall, clatter and slam the pavement, out of work.
derelict but alive, is the wrestler. the wrestler is, and cannot be contained.
skin to skin i have vaunted
they take their dresses off in the dress shop & make art work.
they are not contained much, & i long for them or others.
under the weather & many are under the overpass, jacking.
they sell watches for $10 then go to jail for 100 days.
they sell their bodies -- i hope so (times a thousand, if i need to).
just to be the skin i have vaunted, full of salt & religion.
Copyright © 2014 Benjamin Biesek
B. Joseph Biesek edits in the small presses and has been published by 2RV, The Rain, Party, & Disaster Society, and others. Biesek writes near Big Sur, California.