Archive for 99%

Ghost Town by Vickey Burns

Posted in Vickey Burns with tags , , on January 22, 2012 by Scot

NO TRESPASSING BY ORDER OF LIEN HOLDER!
Subdivision foreclosed by the National Bank
gutted skeletons of tract homes
transparent glass boarded by plywood
overgrown lawn choked by dandelions and wild onions
bags of garbage and abandoned personal property
asphalt pavement broken by intrusion of weeds
vandals produce art on vacant exteriors
concrete barricades block entrance
private security sleeps at gate house
betting that intruders won’t interrupt his slumber
swimming pool empty and playground in pieces
the bank lists all as toxic assets off book
passerby asks, “where did the people go?”

Vacate the System by Charles Plymell

Posted in charles plymell with tags , , , on December 15, 2011 by Scot

“Satellite measurements have proven that artificial energies from power lines are similarly amplified high above the earth, a phenomenon known as power-line harmonic resonance….’this amplified energy interacts with particles from the Van Allen belts…producing a fallout of charged particles…”

“In 1983 , measurements from Ariel 3 and 4 weather satellites showed that enormous amounts of PHLR over North America had created a permanent duct from the magnetosphere, down into the upper air, resulting in a continuous release of ions and energy over the whole continent.”

“Since the mid 1970’s there has been a dramatic increase in flooding, drought, and attendant hardships due to the inconsistent, anomalous weather patterns. It appears likely hat these have been caused in part by electro and perhaps whether deliberately or not….seems feasible to introduce catastrophic climate change over a target country, and even without such weather warfare,continued expansion of the electrical power system threatens the viability of all life on earth.”

“In addition, if Teilhard de Chardin’s noosphere exists, our artificial fields must mask it many times over, literally disconnecting us from life’s collective wisdom. This is not to ignore the plain fact of evil. but here must be some other reason why today’s power elite are so willing to bring the whole world to the brink of so many kinds of destruction. Maybe they literally can’t hear the earth anymore.”
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ask not by DB Cox

Posted in DB Cox with tags , , on December 5, 2011 by Scot


mystic politicians
spout meaningless metaphors
a wall of symbols
to mask defects
& imperfections
in the direction taken
down dead-end streets
past old lies
that somehow
remain standing
as shit falls
all around
the latest master plan
to jump-start the world—
shape a new address
for the dispossessed—
a new language
containing
a scaled-down paradigm
for the “american dream”
dazzling syllables
that cast a blinding light
brilliant—white
full of nothing

Elegy for the 20th Century Liberal Activist by Paul Corman Roberts

Posted in Paul Corman Roberts with tags , , on December 4, 2011 by Scot


Don’t you remember?
Somewhere on this timeline
between Waco TX
And
The deterioration of our walls and grimy floor
Someone said needed sweeping once before
but these rebels don’t care enough
to keep ‘em clean anymore.

There is a dated sexual revolution
Somewhere among the heaps of rot
Strewn about our Occupy.
There is a forgotten labor movement
At the bottom of a laundry hamper,
A civil rights mandate
beneath a greasy pizza container.
The only movement visible now
Is toward the horrible clarity of sobriety.

We’ve been squatting
beneath the barricades for so long now.
Long enough for history
to go all fuzzy via time exposure.
Long enough to believe recess is over
& the bell rang
& we just missed it.

Don’t you remember..?

Don’t you remember when the enemies’
advance battalions arrived
in their matching Circle K polyester uniforms?
Don’t you remember when they surrounded us
and just
…camped out?
Swilling Crazy Horse malt liquor
and processing legalese?

Our bastions shelled
batteries of forms
our turrets strafed
by business return envelops.

An armada of B-1 bureaucratic bombers
dumped their payloads
of competing deregulated utility bills
and eviction notices.

& we laughed.
We pointed in their faces
& so they opened up high-pressure hoses
Dousing and bruising us with a vitriolic ink
& still we took our eternal youth for granted.

Don’t you remember Visa’s special assault forces
scaling their way through our computers
and into our wallets? When treaties were posted
on the front gates offering truces in exchange
for letting the insurance Gestapo impose an existence tax?

So some stuck their heads out the windows and cried
“all we want is our sex, drugs and rock and roll to be on sale down at the mall!”
And then others stuck their heads out the window to protest that this was not at all what the rest of us wanted.
So media pundits and Wall Street columnists ensconced in sniper nests blew off their heads.
And proclaimed, “we’ve consulted what Jesus would do, and Jesus would say one out of three isn’t bad!”
Then there was a diplomatic concierge of Hollywood agents, recording industry executives and Silicon Valley headhunters and Angels waving mall itineraries.
And some cried out “we’ll take it!”
Then even more stuck their heads out the window
to protest that this was even less than what they wanted.
Only to have investors wielding gavels and invisible profit certainty blow off their heads.

Don’t you remember those few who were left?
Looking for a way out
For one
Or maybe
for all?

Don’t you remember seeing daylight
through cracks in a wall
clinging to its seduction of offered passage
Only to watch it fade
Behind the mounting paperwork mortars
that once seemed so harmless?

I remember
I see these things
again and again,
too many times to count.
That’s just the way things cycle
here in the encampment.
Like I said, history gets fuzzy.

I think the power has been turned off
& the urban-khaki storm troopers
have gapped the plumbing.

& that’s all right,
because the few of us left
didn’t want to go
through a social cleansing anyway.
It would have been unsatisfactory
knowing what awaits the party lizard
that manages to survive till the gray dawn light.

We’d rather wallow in the stink of the bunker.
We’d rather smile, smile, smile and wait
for the barricades we grew
and the tents we set down
and the community we tried to build
to copulate
with the diplomats and troops and
special market forces in one shining moment of clarity
when nothing stands between our pure existence
and their lust to reprogram us in their image.
What a fine moment
that is going to be.

Let Them Eat Cake by Pris Campbell

Posted in Pris Campbell with tags , , on December 3, 2011 by Scot



Crazy Dan, Vietnam Vet, lurks
near Wall Street, eyeballs the tents,
the angry folk shouting.

His head whirs.

The war protesters have found him.
Found him after years curled

in cartons or on well-hidden park benches-
only an occasional night dared
at the Salvation Army.

His reconnaissance skills are fading.

But no–a woman looks at him kindly,
sticks an Occupy sign into his hand,
leads him out to the street.

They’re taking the hill,
he realizes.

Young again, dead buddies
by his side, he charges.
He winds through orange mist,
vines; he’ll come back a hero
this time. Surely his country
will love him.

His heart pounds victory until
darkness descends with the thud
of a billy club and the glimpse
of one champagne glass tossed
by gods in pin-stripes
watching.

Four Poems by Doug Draime

Posted in Doug Draime with tags , , on December 1, 2011 by Scot

The Suits Won’t Go Away

I’ve seen these Suits
with dead faces,
since I was a
kid. I remember
closing my eyes tight,
after looking
at an insurance salesman
or a preacher ( how do
you tell the difference? ),
and praying he would not
be there
when I opened
my eyes.
I still do it at times with
CEO’s in their
designer suits, and generals
in battle dress: death arrayed
in ribbons across
their breast.
I shut my eyes tight still,
at morticians and talk show hosts,
and lying politicians,
with a hint of color in their
Porky Pig neckties.
Not to say, though, that all
men who have worn or who wear
suits are on my shit list.
Camus looked fantastic in a suit.
Presley wore suits with an unmistakable cool.
Miles and Coltrane and Kenneth Patchen
wore suits.
And Einstein wore a black rumpled suit
with impeccable class.
I admire men like that who happened to
have worn suits!
Men who have something to sell
other than
war, mind control and
spiritual stagnation.
I know the Suits will not go away,
no matter how long
I close my eyes and pray.
It’s been the same since
the white race rose to power.
The Huns were Suits, and down
the line, Hitler.
Many of our leaders imitate him,
wearing his Suit of death:
perfect fit, no tailoring
needed.

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Revolutions by Cassandra Dallett

Posted in Cassandra Dallett with tags , , , on November 30, 2011 by Scot


They just completed the French
then Haitian, moving on to the Industrial.
But isn’t that a different kind of revolution?
I think as I drive the plastic rental car.
And didn’t they finish with Haiti kinda fast?
I wonder if that Craigslist boy
was named after Toussaint L’Overture.
I’d wanted to ask him if his parents were revolutionaries,
if he was white and black or Latino,
But I knew he didn’t want to talk about
a single thing from our real lives
only the fucking we did hurriedly
in his girlfriend’s bed
the fantasy that I would come to his job at the Hot Tub Shop
fuck him on his desk.
I liked the idea
but would never make it.
In fact I thought,
wouldn’t be back to his twenty something
messy  new appliance filled apartment.
They were young enough to always be out of toilet paper
but have piles of  flat irons makeup and high heels.
He wore his weed like cologne.
I was afraid if I went back I would fall
for their dogs Cali and d Boo
Cali was an older version of my beloved mini pit
she whined at the door when we fucked
Boo was a retarded looking white haired chihuahua
I also had a little soft spot for
I smiled over at my son.
Wished I had studied anybody’s revolution
in school other than the Boston Tea party shit
A revolution I could relate to
wished us fat Americans had the hungry guts
of the Indians the farmers
the people
of Ecuador
who chased  the notion of privatized Bechtel water
right out their door
blockaded every street
with wood and couches burning tires anything
shut the whole shit down
not this- maybe I’ll stop by occupy after work
after I go to the dentist, after I get my rocks off

kind of shit I do
not this  sign the petition on Facebook revolution.
I hold all this in
smile at my son.
Glad someone is teaching him
something
as magnificent as the Haitian revolution
and that what he had taken away from it
was not to burn your sugar and pineapple fields
you might need them some day.
Nobody in my white high school ever mentioned Haiti.
Not in my black high school
either.