An Angry Man

I lined up to buy a recycled dream, stood behind an old man who out of nowhere
said he marched with Joe Hill and was there the day Joe was executed.

He was old, but not that old.

“Bastards,” he spat, edging his way forward in battered Army surplus boots, a once proud coat and a sweat-stained Yankees cap. “Bastards.”

He was unshaven and weathered, though his hazel eyes were as clear as a prophet’s. He moved with a slight limp and clutched a plastic shopping bag with fingers that had seen their share of labor.

“We’ve lost our way,” he said. “We’re in the wilderness and nobody knows a damn thing about the woods. What good’s a man if he can’t remember where he’s from?”

Shoes shuffled on the concrete, the line moved forward by inches, voices murmured in English and Spanish, Korean, Chinese. A truck backfired in the street; several men ducked instinctively.

“You know what they did? They beat the fight out of us, little by little. I always say that people with short memories don’t stand a chance.”

He was angry now, clenching and unclenching his right fist; I didn’t know what he was talking about – I just wanted one recycled dream to hold for another day.

The line moved.

Joe Hill wasn’t standing with us, neither was Tom Joad or Eugene Debs; the ghost of Lenin was nowhere to be seen, and even if Lenin appeared, how many in this crowd would recognize him?

What did these castoffs know – or care -- of dead icons, dead saints, dead revolutionaries, dead agitators? They teetered daily at the edge of the abyss.

“Dynamite and a bottle of whiskey,” the man said. “No other way to fix things now. When it’s this far gone the only way to rebuild it is to destroy it. I’m tired of hauling these chains around, ain’t you?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Sure.”

“They got genius, I give ‘em that. They took over the world without firing a single shot.”

He suddenly took hold of my wrist with a grip surprisingly strong.

“Listen like your life depends on it, son. I won’t live to see it, but you might, if you’re willing to bleed -- and remember. But you have to ask yourself, am I willing?”

With that he turned and walked away, no longer limping, across the street against a red light, gone.

Live to see what?

I reached the head of the line. A young woman in a blue business suit smiled as she informed me that the last recycled dream had just been sold. She had white teeth, lustrous hair, and she smelled good; her parents were proud of her; she was somebody’s girl; she meant no harm, but still I wanted to strangle her for her easy indifference to my need – for all the ignored needs piled against the gates of heaven; for all the greed and cruelty and stupidity and pain in the world. She wasn’t responsible but her lovely neck was within reach.

I hurried after the old man. There were plenty of broken dreams to be had, but not nearly enough angry men.

POEM - THE NEXT MOMENT

Tonight I won’t think about the state of the world
or what George W. Bush has done to my country
the poor people of New Orleans
thousands of innocent Iraqis

I will listen to Coltrane and finish this beer
look into my son’s eyes, hear my daughter’s laughter
feel my wife’s hand on my shoulder

Wild flowers grow in unlikely places
weeds conquer cement
poppies defy the odds
tumbleweeds are destined to roll

To find happiness in an unhappy world
to experience peace in the midst of war
to laugh when everyone else is crying
to find calm when everyone else is hysterical
you’ve got to be a comedian, a simpleton or a sage

I can’t stop Bush from acting the fool
change human nature
all I can do is make a choice
about how the next moment
unfolds

XMAS AT WAL-MART

It’s Christmas-time at Wal-Mart
bargains in the aisles, on the shelves
brought to you by global capitalism

“Save money. Live better.”

Don’t ask how the trinkets are made
don’t lose sleep over the exploitation of unseen peasants
believe it’s all for the good of women
and children, dislocated farmers
whose labor turns the golden wheel
for the money changers in New York, Chicago, Los Angeles,
Tokyo, London

“Save money. Live better.”

Pile your cart high
with goodies

Made in China
The labels scream
Made in China
Factory of the world
Made in China
Home of the Communist capitalists

They’ve taken title to our soul, own us lock, stock,
barrels stacked higher than Washington’s
Monument

Don’t ask why it’s seven years since your last pay raise,
why you can’t afford to fix your teeth,
visit the doctor,
fill your tank with gasoline,
make the mortgage,
or send your deserving daughter to college

It was you and many like you who bought
one-way tickets to the end of the line,
slipped a comfortable noose around your own necks

You fell for the lie and the myth,
The short straw,
The hook, the line, and the sinker

Swallowed it and gagged on it

Don’t ask who stuck the dagger in the aorta
of the American Dream,
unless you’re willing to look long in the mirror

Are you living better?

Poem - Dogma

This woman wrote me a Christmas letter
Lamenting the frenzy of modern life
Our lack of time to sit and read the Bible
Connect with our divinity

She claimed that her Lord & Savior gave her peace
And that the Bible gave her wisdom

OK, nothing wrong with that

Nothing wrong about the Bible either;
As a story it has all the elements – intrigue, murder, sex,
betrayal, heroism, hope, infidelity, cruelty –
Of a thriller one might read at the seashore on a summer’s
Afternoon

I come by my religious skepticism honestly
After many years of reading and reflection;
You believe what you want to believe –
Water into wine, the Virgin Birth, resurrection,
Loaves into fishes or the burning bush –
I won’t interfere with your right to go your way
While I go mine

But well-meaning lady, I resent anyone who tries to jam
Their religious dogma up my skeptical ass
Don’t proselytize on my doorstep or threaten me with
Damnation

Because when death calls, and we’re stripped down
Your God won’t be of any more help to you
Than my doubt will be to me

POEM - MADNESS

Electric shock therapy, blue pills in white cups, every patient talking at once, screaming to the heavens, dodging invisible bullets, running down polished corridors under yellow fluorescent lights, doctors and nurses armed with syringes in pursuit, pomegranate seeds and banana peels stuck on the ceiling from ancient food fights, names and dates and slogans and threats etched into the white walls, madness from top to bottom – in the stairwells and linen closets and bathrooms, in the attic, in the basement, in the boiler room, in the dining hall, in the dayroom, at the bottom of the elevator shaft – madness of every description and degree, madness impervious to therapy, pharmacology or prayer, madness behind every pair of eyes, madness in the cheap seats, madness courtside, madness wallowing in madness, madness copulating on a long winter’s afternoon, madness embracing, madness holding hands, madness on the billboards and piped in on the radio, madness cloaked in a bishop’s robe, madness in the pulpit, madness in the pew, madness winking behind the Presidential Seal, madness on Mount Rushmore and down Wall Street canyons, madness bottled and sold, madness in the aisles at Wal-Mart, madness balanced on a winter wave, join the madness, embrace the madness, French kiss the madness, adopt the madness – nurture the madness in your own mad soul.