Well, now, you know I appreciate your powerful work, Fred. How many times
have I told you that? And I'll be telling you that again and again,
naturally!
But, to be honest, after a coupla days of torturing-to-tell-the-truth poems
(yours, unfortunately for you, being the last---I think---today), I've
totally O.D.'ed on Evil . . . TOTALLY!!
Yes, I know, I know,
I hafta be politic and courageous,
stiff-upper-lipped,
Reality-based,
ready to do battle against the Dark Side,
vigilant against the Unsettled and Unsettling,
stronger than the Opposing Forces, tuned in to my own Bad Inner Self,
poised to Face and Evade,
Deter or Destroy,
beat back the Bad Guys (& Dolls),
rally the troops,
suggest and advise and consent to politic politics, politicians and police,
be prepared to slash and burn for the greater glory of Good,
seal off that part of me that wants to read happy stuff,
forsake beauty,
reveal truth only if it hurts,
sink into the lowest parts of my psyche for the sake of everyone else's
even though I would rather rise with the higher parts of me for the sake of
myself,
surf and surfeit on the brutality of humans who've forsaken themselves,
bury my brain in oppression,
stay alert for contraindicated optimism,
perch on the sharpest railing of every stairway,
gather garbage in order to contemplate its complexity and odor,
and encourage others to do all these things in the name of . . . . . . .
a better world.
Cheers!
Judy
----- Original Message -----
From: "Frederick Pollack" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Friday, September 30, 2005 10:43 PM
Subject: Lynndie England / evil in poetry
Interesting topic: trying to imagine the evil and make poetry out of it.
Here's an effort of mine in that direction from about four years ago.
Last Entry
Bridge. Roadblock.
Food, clips,
no pay for months.
So we charge.
Booze food money smokes.
A fuck.
Sometimes some people
don’t act right.
Quick river trip.
One day a geezer.
Suitcase. A book.
Stands in line writing.
Doesn’t look right. “You’re a spy!”
“No, these are merely
my private thoughts.”
We tell him to read
his private thoughts.
He’s crying, it’s some crap.
“How do we know it says that!”
Crap in suitcase, pockets.
“It’s in code! You’re a spy!”
We show him what else
can be done with paper.
Asswipe. Then food.
Then we kick him a bit, but the line’s
getting longer.
Quick river trip.
The war stops the next week.
I go home, it’s burned.
I move on.
Settle down, get married.
Kids.
These things didn’t happen.
Every life is full
of things that don’t happen.
Some you want, some you don’t,
some private.
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