Poem Draft: West Oakland Sutra for the AK-47 Shooter at 3:00 AM

Contributing to my current poetry writing roll, Oscar’s sent me a poem to riff off, and with the help of the Department of the Army’s Operator’s Manual for the AK-47 Assault Rifle, here is what I got so far:

[minor edits v3.0]

West Oakland Sutra for the AK-47 Shooter at 3:00 AM
After “Blue Light Lounge Sutra For The Performance Poets At Harold Park Hotel”
by Yusef Komunyakaa

the bang gotta be
so loud ears can’t
hear simple prayers
all night long casings
clink on the pavement
& color the street silver
so loud fragments of gut
& flesh cling to the plak-a-plak-plak
you unload your magazine
so loud windows shatter on babies
the bang gotta be
so loud you can expend bullets
& not feel emptied
till you are no more
than an endless round of ammunitions
on rival turf
you load your magazine
hold that trigger
so loud all the dollars & drugs in this world
can’t placate your bang
to ricochet against the concrete
the bang gotta be
so loud you can’t
just remove bolt and carrier
& pack it out of sight
crime in the city
modern man in the firing position
you gotta get zeroed
in on every desired range
so loud the trigger locked
in pull unloads like a runaway gun
into it into it so loud
killing is pre-conscience
the bang gotta be hard
killer bang to hear
& know the adrenaline
we are made of die young
cause if you wanna howl
this rifle be ready
to let the devil use your head
for a target

Poem Draft: We, Spoken Here

This is the last of my “We, Spoken Here” poems (for now). I switched the “we” and “they” in this poem. I think the way it was previously (originally) I was really very uncomfortable with, claiming the “we” as Iraqi war prisoner, when we (hence, “we”) are clearly the Americans in this power dynamic. FYI last year’s The New Yorker interview article with General Taguba is here, and it was excellent to find Taguba claiming this “we” hard.

We, Spoken Here

“We violated the laws of land warfare in Abu Ghraib. We violated the tenets of the Geneva Convention. We violated our own principles and we violated the core of our military values.”

—Major General Antonio M. Taguba
The New Yorker, June 25, 2007

They runhard
We bindtight
They ropeburned
We beltbuckle
They strippedbare
We slamrough
They splitopen
We cockgun
They tornhymen
We bindtight
They blackeyed
We stiffdick
They spreadeagle
We bluntobject
They cigarburned
We closefist
They blockblow
We blindfold
They splaytable
We breakbones
They scratcheyes
We pistolwhip
They opensores
We lineup
They semenstained
We taketurns
They bitedown
We brutefuck
They gangbanged
We snapshots
They jammedthroat
We don’tstop
They coldfloor
We shootload
They eatdirt
We chokehold
They spitblood
We spitcurse
They scorchedskin
We punchface
They kickgroin
We knifeblade
They halfdead
We sicklaugh
They payback

Poem Draft: Downtown Oakland Lullaby

14th & Broadway Lullaby, Oakland
After Anne Waldman’s “& Sleep, the Lazy Owl of Night”

& sleep, the Cleavage Lady of Night

& sleep will make you whole

& sleep, the B-Boys of the Corner

& sleep will make you bold

& sleep, the Poets in the Skids

& sleep will make you still

& sleep, my City, sleep deep

& sleep will give reprieve

                    (repeat)

Poem Draft: West Oakland Litany

West Oakland Litany
After “Litany” by Billy Collins 

You are the hole in my head
I am the pain in your neck
You are the lump in my throat
I am the aching in your heart
—John Doe, “Golden State”

You are the weeds and the front yard,
the amber bottle and the malt liquor.
You are the gum on the new asphalt
and the burning house of the transients.
You are the plaid shirt of the trucker,
and the Canadian geese suddenly in attack.

However, you are not the sagging in the blue jeans,
the dredlocks on the brotha,
or the house of meth dealers.
And you are certainly not the toxic fume-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the toxic fume-scented air.

It is possible that you are the bus stop under the freeway,
maybe even the pigeon on the concrete mixer,
but you are not even close
to being the field of aluminum cans at dusk.

And a quick look in the liquor store window will show
that you are neither the pimp in the poor house
nor the drunkard asleep in his drunkenness.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the city,
that I am the scribe of the neighborhood soundscape.

I also happen to be the closed-fist pedestrian,
the evening paper blowing through a vacant lot
and the crack of pavement on the iron foundry building.

I am also the little girl on the bus
and the mumbling woman’s brown paper bag.
But don’t worry, I’m not the weeds and the front yard.

You are still the weeds and the front yard.
You will always be the weeds and the front yard,
not to mention the amber bottle and—somehow—the malt liquor.

Poem Draft: No, I Am Not Yours

[I am actually thinking that "No, I am not" might be more effective as "No, we are not." But not sure about this. What do you folks think?]

No, I am not Yours
After Bob Kaufman’s “I, Too, Know What I am Not”	

No, I am not Vaseline smile of working girls, singing
	through gritted teeth.
No, I am not your sorry stepchildren hiding
        in corrugated metal boxes.
No, I am not ghost of the assassinated senator, locked
	in his crucifix pose.
No, I am not wheezing of Manila’s wily pickpockets,
	in broken shoes.
No, I am not monsoon fruit of Oriental flesh tenders,
	with skanky lingerie.
No, I am not worship of sacred blue passport, in hallowed
	INS halls.
No, I am not crack pipe hopes of hopeless street walkers,
	traffickers in legs spread wide.
No, I am not garbage dump litanies of devout Catholics,
	in crowns of alcoholic prayer.
No, I am not chlorine bleach sighs of silent toilet scrubbers,
	in unventilated gasps.
No, I am not kisses of syphilitic sex vendors, smiling
	through antibiotic lips.
No, I am not illiterate worker’s minimum wage sunk
	in his slumlord hell.
No, I am not cry of newspaper pigeon, winged trash in flight
	from leafblower bullets.
No, I am not rales of Avian flu, amplified
	by tobacco addiction.
No, I am not stumble of broken English, inarticulate
	in racist America.
No, I am not report of silenced women, helpless
	in the soldier’s disease.
No, I am not reflection of your darker self, alone
	in the almighty dollar.
No, I am not wombs of Filipina maids hatching
	more Filipina maids.
No, I am not the whistle of streetcorner whores with cribs
	of hungry mouths.
No, I am not curse of immigrant children, bent
	under broken parents.
No, I am not kiss of tropical breeze,
	unconditional Pinay love.
No, I am not the aping of you, escaped from your captivity.
No, I am not anything that is anything I am not.

Poem Draft: West Oakland Invocation

West Oakland Invocation
After Juan Felipe Herrera’s “Blood Gang Call”

Calling all scrap metal pickers,
	the ones wearing leaden paint instead of blue jeans
Calling all watermelon & cherry vendors,
	come down the avenue to this traffic light
Calling all asbestos ceiling scrapers,
	you, yes, you the ones with your faces like bandits
Calling all barbwire twisters
	caught in the tetanus spell of puncture wound
Calling all crane operators
	high up in the heaven of diesel smoke, leather faced
Calling all corner store priests
	& corner store nuns & corner store saints worshiping cash money
Calling all police line crossers
	in the coroner van, in the assembly bed of bag ladies
Calling all cement pourers
	kneeling at the Krylon symbols chanting “Amen”
Calling all weapon concealers
	dropping shells in the form of another brother gone
Calling all micro mini skirts
	kicking lust down the Lower Bottoms
Calling all Cadillac shiners
	pimpin’ the sugary womb in search of babygirl
Calling all backhoe pilots
	Excavating the dregs of this city grave, anonymous
Calling all freeway weavers
	threading your arteries and veins with seismic retrofitting
Calling all scrap metal pickers,
	the old ones wearing garbage bag chic.

Poem Draft: My California

[Edited version below 06.21.2008. Happy Solstice.]

As inspired by Lee Herrick’s “My California,” forthcoming in ZYZZYVA:

My California
After Lee Herrick’s “My California”

“Let me serenade the streets of L.A.
From Oakland to Sacktown
The Bay Area and back down…”

— 2PAC, “California Love,” featuring Dr. Dre

In my California, we wild, wild west. We Gold Rush fabulous. We Watsonville carabao. We Morro Bay rock. We Walnut Grove boogie. We broccoli be-bop. We Tule Lake. We Manzanar. We poema en español. We stand at the end of el Camino Real.

In my California, we no Heathen Chinee. We no Hollywood starlet. We know there is there. We know pesticide water. We know Mojave rattlesnake. We truckin’ hard down the Grapevine. We chargin’ SUV’s up the Altamont Pass.

In my California, we know how to party. We Black Panther Party. We 2PAC and Dre. We Dime a Day, we Dollar a Dance. We Fillmore jazz. We Summer of Love. We Barbary Coast. We I-Hotel. We Chinatown. We North Beach howl.

In my California, we no Baywatch babe. We East Los, we South Central LA. We Rodney King video. We campesino. We mighty Sacramento River. Rooted deep sequoia giants, we lovin’ the wind, we kissin’ the sky.

Poem Draft: An anthem for West Oakland

Just working out some lines.

I sing an anthem of Dogtown to West Grand Ave., for freeways splitting the neighborhood’s sides. I sing for liquor stores, I sing for the taco truck. I sing for the fruit stand man.

I sing for Adeline Street tenement electrical fires, for boarded up windows and charred roofless homes. I sing for diesel exhaust.

I sing for the stains on Reverend JD’s T-shirt, and for the good Reverend’s bowler hat too. I sing for Mrs. Ruby who for decades now has known the neighborhood boys are good.

I sing for refrigerators in front yards, for washing machines on the sidewalk. I sing for tireless cars upon wooden blocks. I sing for salvage and sculpture.

I sing for you, Dogtown, your nowhere leading traintracks, your chainlink fence lined streets, your barbwire lined chain fences.

I sing for your Chinese food and donuts, I sing for your corner stores. I sing for your shopping cart pushers, I sing for their heaps of recycling.

I sing for grandfather oak trees in Defremery Park. I sing for tomato vines growing in barrels, I sing for bougainvillea, for waist-high weeds and brown grass.

I sing for you, Dogtown, for your boomin systems and your Baptist churches, for your black cowboys and your Sunday barbecue.

I sing for the lady who called me Sugarpie, I sing for her curlers and slippers. I sing for the chainsmoking lady in second hand sneakers, who used to be homeless, and who now is dead.

I sing for the gunshots. I sing for the gunshots. I sing for the gunshots. I sing for the gunshots.

Poem: After Aram Saroyan

Untitled She Poem: Draft #2

I am thinking that reading Jen Bervin and Juan Felipe Herrera at the same time was helpful after all.

[This is subject to change or disappear.]

[poem was here]

Draft: Untitled “She” Poem

[This is subject to change or disappear]

“How can I ask her for forgiveness in Tagalog?”
Find the answer to this question and millions more on Yahoo! Answers.

She is forgiving, she is Filipina; give it a month and everything is forgotten.

She can be roughly translated.

She believes in smooth social interpersonal relationships.

She is always smooth when yielding. In order to please you, she will yield.

She is online, oiled string bikini ass shot. Subscribe to her, and see her yield to group opinion.

She is onstage, recreation, adventure. She knows the art of forgetting. She bends.

She loses face when she says no. She is smooth when offered what she can’t refuse.

She is goods and services of equal or lesser value. She is altruistic in times of social stress and warfare.

She is translated and she can’t refuse. She assumes the translator’s goodwill and she yields to his roughness.

She cooperates in humility, understanding, sacrifice, and forgiveness, so that she may move towards progress. What Remains of War: Apology and Forgiveness.

She rides shotgun with self-abasement, green-lights, stonewalls, written off so that she may propel towards vagabondage. Warmongers pitch tents: vindication and lifeboats.

She gets in bed with obedience, gets the picture, ponies up in hair shirts, for her jungle self to slouch towards civility. Weapons of mass destruction: white-wash and self-flagellation.

She plays ball with moxie, laps it up, chips in, doles out and laughs off, for her gangbang self to disband towards high culture. Ashes of violation: olive branches, coffee breaks.

Poem: Worry

We just got back from the Manilatown exhibit, Rendering Capitalism, featuring some of my favorite and local Pinoy artists. This exhibit, curated by Arvin Flores, is basically a collage of found images and found texts, displaying the ironies and obscenities of the consumerist culture in which we live. In addition to the exhibit, they have created a zine, and I am quite happy to have a couple of mail order bride poems included in it. They also have a blog, here.

As well, I am happy to have had really good conversations with folks, about poetic processes, catharsis, and what is beautiful and fucked up about our community.

Just scrawled a poem down.

It’s subject to change [01.28.08 revision v3.0].

Poem: Corpse Eater

I am the heart of greed darkening western values. I am the blade cutting English into tongues.

I am the multitudes manufacturing whiteness. I emerge from industry, an American, a white man.

I am the ethnic slur, the name meaning “fat taker.” In the footsteps of our Mr. Kurtz, I emerge.

Any white man could do, and frequently did, as I did, with impunity. I bear my burden, I cleanse the impure.

I rule because I am elevated by many, many steps above. I spin erotic tales of exploits “Far East,” where I am the myth many locals have never seen before.

I declare war, as unprincipled profiteers exhume the newly deceased, and eat their ethnic corpses.