If I go down into the town,
where the Wal-Mart and Taco Bell await,
let me buy
what others have bought.
I want to have what others have.
Let me follow.
Be a follower.
Be an American.
A Republican or Democrat.
Be a man, always look like one.
Drive a truck.
But if they talk,
if they come to talk to me,
I am me, I have my shotgun,
get out of my way, leave me be.
I am tough.
But, what are they up to?
The collection of cells, organs,
and the latest trends from the internet.
Fight for your life,
fight for your family.
Leave me alone.
Tag: fascism
Fruit in the night
by my solitary self
is freedom
the nationed ones cannot know
the nationed ones look to windows
to know
counting through filters
what one is to be told
revive the baptisms of the satellites
the nationless does know
the fruit in the night
and
what love can spell
how love knows to hold bones
or tell them
the truth of
what home is
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
The hallway outside the
Chicago Nonmonogamy Conference
smelled like eggs Gascognais
and spilled wine.
That’s fine, but it’s May and
smells like this shouldn’t persist over
the flowering outside and the
fresh steamed carpet of the
conference center.
So I looked for a new lover
between the walls of beige and
carpet of gray, like the thoughts of
corporations, the smell persisted
to make me wonder what intestinal
culture existed there where the other
culture does but doesn’t exist in
some way
in our libertine-still-corporatist blood.
I attempted to write.
I attempted to do,
before children no longer mattered.
If ever I write,
if ever I do,
then children no longer matter.
Children own pieces.
Children have brains.
Children submit the ideology o nationhood.
Children as interests.
Children as food.
Children no longer matter.
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:
Antipoémus (poetry book)
The moons in trident,
werewolves in lingerie,
the New World is coming,
the New World is coming.
The big metal machines,
the plastic little molds,
they’re pumping them out,
the big metal machines,
the plastic little molds.
I asked you to come to a log cabin,
the place in a green Oregon forest,
but this was a vacation in retrospect,
a vacation for Two Thousand Ten.
There under three moons
General Electric® hid forever.
A United States Military hiding-cavern,
pine needles on the forest floor.
You taking them out,
you smashing their heads,
Mossacio’s screaming descendants,
Adam and Eve,
smashing their heads.
On the stones in a pine forest,
the River Clackamas down below.
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:
Antipoémus (poetry book)
Not am I certain
of the United States Marine Corps.
Not have they won every battle.
Not is the look in their eyes
a violence bred of poverty.
Their alumni wear the moustaches,
their moustaches orderly like freedom.
Their moustaches, the stinkpots of freedom,
they are strong and smell of dank.
Order the conflicts for protection.
That our wars should never end.
People come home fucked up from them.
Many people never come home.
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:
Antipoémus (poetry book)
novamartinpoetry.com 