Solidity (Not Solidarity) is for Ken.
Ginsburg aping Kerouac, with beard and glasses,
Ragged flannel shirt, I sit in darkness, in my
Basement, tapping out a howl. The world's
Very solid now, a concrete slab, and my place
In it, your place, everybody's place, is fixed,
And all those entertainments, sudden squalls
Which swirl above us, wars and warnings,
Demonstrations, dismal visits to the polls,
Do nothing to disturb that slab. The ones
Who claim to rule do, but only along
Narrow channels long since cast. They
Don't surprise. They can't, and, thus,
We hear commands to do what we long
Have been doing: labor, low-paid, for
The rich, put on a uniform and fight,
And stare back bleakly into cameras
Watching everywhere we go. Watched?
To what end, just to cow us? All the
Menace in the air is faked. The blacks
Remain in jail, the Muslims cursed and
Cast aside. There's not a communist
In sight, and even all those redneck
Rebels, training near their trailer parks,
Know better than to start a fight.
The slab is safe. Tectonic plate, the only
Threat to it would be some sudden movement
By the plates that loom on either side.
Valedictory
I do think about death every day,
As I stagger about with time-bomb
Heart. It isn't something which
Scares me much. I did what
I wanted. I can be done, but
I'm sorry for those who get
Something from me: my kids,
The four of them, differently
Perfect, who drop by at odd
Times; they please me, and seem
To be pleased by my presence;
They're proof that the species
Has pockets of merit; my wife,
Who holds me between her sharp
Elbows, a pusher, a shover,
A flibbertigibbit, I cherish her
Next to me throughout the night;
My sister in-law, my first hidden
Love; laughing, we plot to pad
Her sister's elbows; and one
Red-haired woman, so delicate,
Lovely, who I have kept loving,
Though she's ceased to speak.
I ask them all to be honest, to see
How little they've gotten from
One idle man, who remains,
For the present, among them,
But could disappear with a
Tick of his heart.
Arizona
Alvaro, I urge you not to cross
The border here tonight.
The vigilantes plan to ride,
And they don't want to turn
You back. They'd rather put
You in a box. I know that you're
The better man, but merit
Doesn't count for much
When someone places nickel-
Plated steel against your head.
Whiteness
I'm the white guy sitting in a chair
At my friend, Reggie's, wedding.
He's remarrying his wife, and, now,
With all the vows and sermons
Done, the little dance floor that he
Made out on his backyard's lawn
Is packed and pulsing. Next to it,
A DJ plays the music that has set
The guests to swaying, bumping
With a syncopation Northern
Europeans cannot know. I sit.
I watch, and I would kill to keep harm
From my buddy, and the crowd
Of people on that floor, but I know
I am not equipped to leave this chair,
And join the swaying. That's for them,
Not me, and that is fine.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 80 times
Written on 2016-11-21 at 00:23
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
The Hard Way
Solidity (Not Solidarity)Ginsburg aping Kerouac, with beard and glasses,
Ragged flannel shirt, I sit in darkness, in my
Basement, tapping out a howl. The world's
Very solid now, a concrete slab, and my place
In it, your place, everybody's place, is fixed,
And all those entertainments, sudden squalls
Which swirl above us, wars and warnings,
Demonstrations, dismal visits to the polls,
Do nothing to disturb that slab. The ones
Who claim to rule do, but only along
Narrow channels long since cast. They
Don't surprise. They can't, and, thus,
We hear commands to do what we long
Have been doing: labor, low-paid, for
The rich, put on a uniform and fight,
And stare back bleakly into cameras
Watching everywhere we go. Watched?
To what end, just to cow us? All the
Menace in the air is faked. The blacks
Remain in jail, the Muslims cursed and
Cast aside. There's not a communist
In sight, and even all those redneck
Rebels, training near their trailer parks,
Know better than to start a fight.
The slab is safe. Tectonic plate, the only
Threat to it would be some sudden movement
By the plates that loom on either side.
Valedictory
I do think about death every day,
As I stagger about with time-bomb
Heart. It isn't something which
Scares me much. I did what
I wanted. I can be done, but
I'm sorry for those who get
Something from me: my kids,
The four of them, differently
Perfect, who drop by at odd
Times; they please me, and seem
To be pleased by my presence;
They're proof that the species
Has pockets of merit; my wife,
Who holds me between her sharp
Elbows, a pusher, a shover,
A flibbertigibbit, I cherish her
Next to me throughout the night;
My sister in-law, my first hidden
Love; laughing, we plot to pad
Her sister's elbows; and one
Red-haired woman, so delicate,
Lovely, who I have kept loving,
Though she's ceased to speak.
I ask them all to be honest, to see
How little they've gotten from
One idle man, who remains,
For the present, among them,
But could disappear with a
Tick of his heart.
Arizona
Alvaro, I urge you not to cross
The border here tonight.
The vigilantes plan to ride,
And they don't want to turn
You back. They'd rather put
You in a box. I know that you're
The better man, but merit
Doesn't count for much
When someone places nickel-
Plated steel against your head.
Whiteness
I'm the white guy sitting in a chair
At my friend, Reggie's, wedding.
He's remarrying his wife, and, now,
With all the vows and sermons
Done, the little dance floor that he
Made out on his backyard's lawn
Is packed and pulsing. Next to it,
A DJ plays the music that has set
The guests to swaying, bumping
With a syncopation Northern
Europeans cannot know. I sit.
I watch, and I would kill to keep harm
From my buddy, and the crowd
Of people on that floor, but I know
I am not equipped to leave this chair,
And join the swaying. That's for them,
Not me, and that is fine.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 80 times
Written on 2016-11-21 at 00:23
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text| Texts |
 by Lawrence Beck Latest textsIllFor Isabelle Unsightly Not the Man He Was The Minutes Crawl Past |
Increase font
Decrease