"Fleetwood Mac," written during NaPoWriMo 2014, is up on Cross Review

Cross Review is a groovy little lit magazine and reading series in New Jersey, and the good editors took my poem, "Fleetwood Mac."

15: page 257

9 April, 9th Erasure (p 251 of "Mourning & Melancholia")

That seemed a little wordy so I pulled out the marker again:

8 April M&M (page 250)

A little Diane di Prima to Prime the Pumps

REVOLUTIONARY LETTER #19           by Diane di Prima

(for The Poor People’s Campaign)

if what you want is jobs

for everyone, you are still the enemy,

you have not thought thru, clearly

what that means

//

if what you want is housing,

industry (G.E. on the Navaho reservation)

a car for everyone, garage, refrigerator,

TV, more plumbing, scientific

freeways, you are still

the enemy, you have chosen

to sacrifice the planet for a few years of some

science fiction Utopia, if what you want

//

still is, or can be, schools

where all our kids are pushed into one shape, are taught

it’s better to be ‘American’ than black

or Indian, or Jap, or PR, where Dick

and Jane become and are the dream, do you

look like Dick’s father, don’t you think your kid

secretly wishes you did

//

if what you want

is clinics where the AMA

can feed you pills to keep you weak, or sterile

shoot germs into your kids, while Mercke & Co

grows richer

if you want

free psychiatric help for everyone

so that the shrinks

pimps for this decadence, can make

it flower for us, if you want

if you still want a piece

a small piece of suburbia, green lawn

laid down by the square foot

color TV, whose radiant energy

kills brain cells, whose subliminal ads

brainwash your children, have taken over

your dreams

//

degrees from universities which are nothing

more than slum landlords, festering sinks

of lies, so you too can go forth

and lie to others on some greeny campus

//

THEN YOU ARE STILL

THE ENEMY, you are selling

yourself short, remember

you can have what you ask for, ask for

everything

Another more erased erasure from "Mourning and Melancholia" (maybe this is my plan)

talk about it (27)

talk about it, the splendor

Never the language always the rhythm.

Always the beat, the song, the blood’s pulse,

the finger running, thrumming, toe knock knock

knocking against the seat in front, would

you stop, would you just stop. Ever

the nodding, catching the tune, sipping

the melody out of the jazz, sucking

the jazz out of the lyric, hearing

the joke in the shift in the lilt, ready

to laugh at it, ready to cry about it, hard,

heavy sobs, breath lost, sob muscles

essing the body. Never the words, or hardly

ever the words, because here come the waves,

the mountains, here the view of the bounce,

green in all directions and dun and pearl

and undulating marble mounding, squeezing

that space inside, mounting and

again then pushing it out, out, heaving,

hefting, helling, heavening. Again.