Monthly Archives: June 2011
Wherever you find yourself mid-summer and I hope it is a mix of Kellerman’s from Dirty Dancing and Tranquil in Wayanad, India- A headband should be in order. Wherever you find yourself this coming vacation season I hope you only wear black bases and hints of color everywhere else. <3 the bow queen
Shot but miss Fernanada De Sa Schwartz
Wigs and Makeup by Lauren De Groove
America I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing.
America two dollars and twenty-seven cents January 17, 1956.
I can’t stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb
I don’t feel good don’t bother me.
I won’t write my poem till I’m in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I’m sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don’t think he’ll come back it’s sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?
I’m trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I’m doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven’t read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid and I’m not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet.
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there’s going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I’m perfectly right.
I won’t say the Lord’s Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven’t told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over
I’m addressing you.
Are you going to let our emotional life be run by Time Magazine?
I’m obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore.
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It’s always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie
producers are serious. Everybody’s serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.
Asia is rising against me.
I haven’t got a chinaman’s chance.
I’d better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of genitals
an unpublishable private literature that goes 1400 miles and hour and
twentyfivethousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underpriviliged who live in
my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers is the next to go.
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that I’m a Catholic.
America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as individual as his
automobiles more so they’re all different sexes
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe
America free Tom Mooney
America save the Spanish Loyalists
America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
America I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they
sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the
speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the
workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party
was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother
Bloor made me cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody must have
been a spy.
America you don’re really want to go to war.
America it’s them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen. And them Russians.
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia’s power mad. She wants to take
our cars from out our garages.
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Reader’s Digest. her wants our
auto plants in Siberia. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.
That no good. Ugh. Him makes Indians learn read. Him need big black niggers.
Hah. Her make us all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in the television set.
America is this correct?
I’d better get right down to the job.
It’s true I don’t want to join the Army or turn lathes in precision parts
factories, I’m nearsighted and psychopathic anyway.
America I’m putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.
in other news I am now podcasting via my tumblr and a new series called ‘the poemansmack’ deal with it
When I saw this jean pant suit sheer sleeve thing with jeweled buttons at the Goodwill this morning I knew I had found a part of god. The god of style that is. Whose brain did this fantastic monstrosity come out of? Were they drunk? Are they still alive today? So many questions arose and yet shall always be unanswered but for $5.99 (Goodwill is having a “dress” sale this week) I can rest easy knowing that miracle workers like this have been and will forever be.
I am, in the first part of this particular shoot having a Rosie the Riveter moment – which brings me back to a woman I dearly admire for her keen and wily commentary on the upwardly mobile females of the last hundred years.
Dare I say this jean onesie stands for my position as a woman in today’s society, begging the dead horse to rouse again and again- WHAT IS BEAUTIFUL?!?!? Is it a co-ed in a lovely dress of lace, shyly holding poppies and pouring lemonade or is the X-Men nerd, day glow pant wearing drifter who really doesn’t give two shits what you believe about the necessary endurance of femininity. Femininity is strength of character while being female, period- be that as a housewife or a mogul – endurance is between those two poles- so deal with it boys the jean pant suit stays!
In the second half of this post I move from Sister Suffragettes to day-glow pants;
these pants were a whopping $6.99 at the GW and will ensure I never get lost while wearing them. More day-glow, less assholes.
the war had not yet begun and as Tennessee once wrote “…the huge middle class of America was matriculating in a school for the blind. Their eyes had failed them, or they had failed their eyes, and so they were having their fingers pressed forcibly down on the fiery Braille alphabet of a dissolving economy.
In Spain there was Guernica.”
It is amazing to live in such closeness with someone born an immeasurable distance from the 90′s teen, and yet as an adult to understand completely the reasons why it all worked out. ‘Sita was a lucky child’ he would tell you- and this in part is quite valid for my father and I were so close when I was young I began to model myself after him rather than my mother, which is very Paper Moon for a little girl. His art bled into me literally, and I do regard him as the giver of my temperament. Art was everywhere in my youth- we saw museums and visited eccentric friends, I knew of Frida and Diego, he saw to it. An array of Models greeted me at his studio, as a teen I was invited fashion parties. I was read Roald Dahl and understood what it is to make a living from talent and despite the polarization of our American upbringings I was given timelessness in the silent rattle of paternal fervency.
Here is to you Pops. For my freedom and for my spirit.