What follows here are bits and pieces of writing I jot in my notebook – sometimes poems, sometimes silly verse, sometimes fragments, sometimes what might turn out to be songs. I don’t expect to put much up here, but we”ll see how it develops. Some of these I quite like as pieces of writing; some I like portions of enough to put here; some I include simply because right now they are significant in some way, whether the writing’s any good or not.
San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua, 1985.
there were frogs on the road each morning
hundreds of frogs.
like cow-pats, pressed flowers, hockey pucks, papyrus,
legs splayed on broken ashphalt,
tire-mark-writ patters on their backs.
odd that at dusk we never heard their croaking.
there were frogs on the road each morning
hundreds of frogs.
for kicking, flinging, crunching beneath our shoes,
one-stop shopping for children’s past-times from football, stone-skipping, ice-crackling -
or so it would be on another way to another school
some thousands of miles up this pacific coast.
odd that through the night we never heard them shrieking.
there were frogs on the road each morning
hundreds of frogs.
beneath boys in Mexico-made sneakers and too-short, pressed trousers,
beneath girls in bare legs and long-patched, fresh-cleaned skirts,
beneath skies whose postcard-perfect blue cracked open
now and then with rain or thunder or surveillance signals or bombers with no national markings.
odd that in the dawn we never heard their breathing cut.
there were frogs on the road each morning
hundreds of frogs.
but always by the time we’d sung the hymn of the revolution,
by the time we’d stumbled through sums and sandino and sport,
by the time we crossed again
passing the morning-time fishers home for lunch,
passing the teenagers scurrying, suckling, sliding in the brush,
passing the trucks rolling home the coffins, the cripples, the crazy,
passing the troops of trade union internationalists with eyes like Christmas morning and mouths like Good Friday,
passing the carts of tortillas and rum and fresh-ish eggs from Cuba (thank-you-commandante-fidel)…
by this time the roads were always clear
and how so many dead frogs can simply vanish in a school-day
seems, as i look back,
a disturbing kind of magic.
Red Cedar
Out into the midnight -
Warm damp midnight of summer like the ink of a fresh tattoo,
Tooth-ish dry midnight of winter like flakes of over-burnt charcoal
Well-sopped leafy midnight of anytime in rainforests where mushrooms grow in the drippings of trees –
Step with me,
All fingers and cheek and ticklish underside of knees.
Down beneath the midnight –
Sharp midnight of a crescent moon’s horns,
Trickster midnight of a full moon’s poker face,
Glad midnight of tides fucking the shore romance novel-style –
Sit with me,
All stillness and awe and pricklish underside of quiet.
Up against the midnight –
Breathy midnight of skins like the best bath-houses,
Tight midnight of scary things, the insomnia of parents
Mine-shaft midnight where coal and sweat crust between strikes
Press with me,
All secrets and rage and ficklish moments.
Step with me, sit with me, press with me,
And before morning cracks its shell
I will lean in where you have made your rest,
I will leave my lips where you are still sleeping,
I will prepare our day-break fire.
Face up from the midnight,
All my words hewn from red cedar
Bare where the bark is stripped.
On Marta’s Skin
on marta’s skin
welts still make mountains down the back
thirty years past the whipping
on marta’s skin
hard rows make waves over the legs
cutting across veins like so such stormy tide
on marta’s skin
craters on cheeks and chin and the bridge on the nose
posit questions and conjecture, but i don’t ever ask
on marta’s skin
tiny cracks dried like so many geothermal vents in a leathered landscape
but strong to my little boy’s fingers
no red-black flag no thousands marching no AK47 leaning against the coffee table
could seal a promise so tight or hold a freedom so close
on marta’s skin
from those eyelids heavy over sparks sparking as only sparks can do
from those arms deep in corn flour and powdered in history
from those fingers on my face, that palm against mine, those lips mouthing my first stories when she reads,
thousands stole borders
thousands wore sashes of ammunition
and one small boy simply knew what knowing was worth
A Strike Song in Progress
Heads up, boys, I’m gonna swing this chain
Just one more time, one more time
Face up, girls, in the driving rain
Just one more time, one more time
Strike for a smoke boys, strike for a drink
Strike for a girl with a smile and a wink
Heads up, all, we’re gonna walk this line
Just one more time, one more time
Steady, boys, we’re gonna hold’em back
Just one more time, one more time
Shut out the boss, boys, shut out the scab
Just one more time, one more time
Catch me a rest when the lights go down
Stand with the picket til I hit the ground
Heads up, all, we’re gonna walk this line
Just one more time, one more time
Damn near broke and damn near dead
Nickel for a nightstick taken to the head
Heads up, all, gonna swing this chain one more time again
Fight til I trade this factory
For food on the table and a woman on my knee
Til that come, boys, swing this chain one more time again
Heads up, boys, gonna run this train
Just one more time, one more time
Union girls too wild to tame
Just one more time, one more time
Let go your petticoats, pick up an axe
Fire up the engine, tear up the tracks
Heads up, all, we’re gonna hold this line
Just one more time, one more time
May Days come and May Days gone
Penny for a union boss who led us wrong
Heads up, all, gonna swing this chain one more time again
Fight til I trade this factory
For a drink in my hand and a woman on my knee
Til that come, boys, swing this chain one more time again
A Megan Poem – May 2008
I taste your salt
and tingle like ice melting on the raw inside of my cheeks
I taste your salt
and these fingers tremble like that old communist whittling a walking stick
I taste your salt
and breath fast and short
like something between nine years old and caught with a stolen candy bar and fourteen and a second before i cum
I taste your salt
these five hours and three time zones
that coming kiss as dry with anticipation as wet with sweat, wine, and release.
Tom Paine (December 2007)
shake, you bits of bones
under these floorboards, wrapped in greasy black cotton
whispering in the dust on bar-stools and window-shutters.
tom paine, christ, what a trip for your pieces of hair, brain, skin.
tom shakes the rafters, tom shakes the floor
tom shakes a malt beer, dies piss poor
washington red-coat jefferson crown
castle goin’ up, boy, castle come down
so step slow, step careful
skip a step and slice those fingers on sharp words and common sense
and common sense and common common common
c’mon, tom, shake you bits of bone
and drop your shoes for such ferocious dancing as no grave will hold
so what’s on your tongue, captain america?
after borders, bombs and boston cream
what’s that sharpness bleeding through?
Tuberculosis (August 2007)
Tuberculosis never played in the soccer games
that ranged across communal lands into patches of green vegetable.
Tuberculosis never held my hand
and tested its whiteness til both our pigments played out leapt in played out leapt in
Tuberculosis never smashed ground-nuts into peanut butter
to flavour our gravy, never even whispered my name let alone repeating Brian Brian Brian Brian
just to remind me it was at my side
Tuberculosis never laughed at my incoherent babbling
that would never pass for Shona
Tuberculosis never met me at a bus-stop
that was all dust and beer and no schedule to help carry my bags the ninety minutes to fire and food
Tuberculosis never sat outside my room
waiting for honky wake-up time and never bought snuff for its mother and never cursed at foosball tables
and never took all the kids to build a well or gather firewood or cook some rice
because I always ate less when it was sadza in my bowl.
In fact, tuberculosis never bothered even to send a letter, make a phone call
when this world died ten fingers and one gravelly-voice too many times.
If Christopher Columbus
Had had a better compass,
And if he hadn’t found
His ship had gone aground
Upon this ancient shore
Of Cree and Sioux and more,
Of Inca and of Maya,
Of gold and of papaya,
Then…
No Africa enslaved,
No bloody human trade,
No gold or silver sent
On ships for Europe bent
To fund imperial wars
Of Queens and Emporors…
Who then in debt were tied
To merchants on the side,
Who pressed a cruel demand
To enclose Europe’s land
And force from house and home
Poor peasants – sent to roam
In search of land and bread
Til, suitably unfed,
Submitted to regime
Of capital unseen,
Of labour and of works
Overseen by greedy jerks.
Then…
No dark satanic mills,
No factories to fill,
No world run by toil,
No ownership of soil,
No labour up for sale,
No market to prevail,
No growth economy
Convincing us we’re free
To sell ourselves each day
To earn some meager pay,
To feed ourselves and so
Another day to go.
Then…
No bucks or cash or bob
Would make me need a job.
I wouldn’t have to wake,
The rush hour trip to make.
I wouldn’t need to rise,
To force open my eyes.
Instead could stay to rest
My head upon your breast;
At leisure we could wake,
At leisure love to make.
So…
Columbus now I curse
As I search for change in purse.
Columbus I oppose
For these damned working clothes.
Columbus I impeach
For a history unleashed
Which means at work we’re stuck
When we could stay home and fuck.
drip (2001)
kiss kiss tag-along
carry on and drop a song for closure
sweet sweet cherry-thon
freckles kiss me dripping dawn exposure
here I sleep and here I stand and I can’t wait to understand
and drip drip drip and on and on and on and on
wrap me in your legs and take me
brink of drink I begs you make me outside make me poutside
here I rise and here I fall and I can’t keep from feeling small
and drip drip drip and on and on and on and on
wrecked or sexed is all the same this bruised up neck this silver chain
and just cause I been down the drain and drip drip drip
closest to the closet kinda queer inside my pockets
and just cause I’m excitable its drip drip and
here I sleep and here I stand and I can’t wait to understand
and drip drip drip and on and on and on and on
open eyes and ears and mouth and legs and venus roundabout
and slip-slide slick-ride drip drip
drip
drip
stop
