3/19/2012
May in March, bench on Passyunk …
     ...two women
     taking in the sun – not worrying much

     what it all means       how strange it is

               talk

     about the weather, the cost of…

     now a cluster of children, friends
     now…. flock of pigeons wing on wing

     a few walk past – money in their pockets
     some – not so much

                     to love the world…

     …is hard -- against everything contrary – everything
     & the world, to love the world
     till one grows weary of it, worn

     & spring again
     you pull it on again, your soul --
     that old sock – wear it on your head

     like that…

     & make it mouth the words

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     the usual conflict... when i get into activist stuff... begin to feel suffocated after a time.. the  'morality'.. the 'judgments'... making new rules, new "THOU SHALT NOTS" ...surely because this is part of me too, a defensive reaction to the horrors of the monsters who rule this world, part of what draws me in... but not all of it. What gives me pleasure in poetry, and making art... is the total opposite... a breaking down of walls way more profound than the trivial act of tearing down a fence... or blowing up shit or... and though I love this movement, and Occupy is clearly the historical movement of our time, and I love the people who are my friends and comrades... I'm feeling more and more alienated here, as I am in the rest of this Empire of Money and Death... where are the poets? the artists? Not as auxiliaries... as useful propagandists... but as badass, risk taking out there on the front lines leaders in this movement to make a better world as the political & social 'realists' ... the 'stratigists' and 'tacticians' and ... la la la --on the line with our fucking bodies? AS poets. AS artists!
Where?