Hastings Street

Hastings Street

They carved an incision straight down your sternum
then poured in the tar and rubber

If the gap was sealed, the mark is visible
a poor man’s plenum

Cadillacs, Lincolns
Impalas, junkers and jalopies
careen down the ‘artery.’

Bluesman picks his dobro
with a delta accent
carrying its own vibrato
after several tours in the furnace

He pries loose the tar and rubber
with piston rod fingers
over vulcanized hands

A city has no secrets.

But here’s the deal:
five will get you ten
then six of one
half dozen of the other
that everyone’s crying foul
now that the phone
is a personal amplifier.

Jeremy Nathan Marks

Revolution

Revolution

I am of
no more value than
a fish
of no less than
an octopus

There is no scale
no auction
only a fish, an octopus,
me

Am I a nihilist
agnostic
or atheist
a believer in a deity kinder
-or more indifferent-
than the best or worst we
(you & I, reader)
can imagine?

Jeremy Nathan Marks

Conyers

Conyers

-for Aubrey Pollard, Fred Temple & Carl Cooper

I

The stories we tell ourselves
sincere as they seem
mostly overlook the stories others
live individually
so we live in worlds where blue is green

While buildings burn
while freeways are built
through cramped campuses
of what was simply available
While civic leaders bruit
about promises they cannot keep
While imagination remains the true
invisible hand making its porous
palm felt across the land

The heat from the streets
from locked gun cabinets
and pockets not deep enough
to do something enduring
about the Jones that grows
so it is that confessions
and intentions pale beside
predilections that hardly
can be called
the snows of yesteryear.

II

Congressman Conyers
standing on the hood of a friend’s car
implores the rioters, looters
to return home before the first molotov
cocktail is thrown
before the first child is acquired
by scattered fire

These are his people, or so he believes
they put him in office
assured him of his status
respected that he bought his own place
just a mere two blocks over
from the worst street of sin in the city

So it is a genuine rebuke when they say
‘We don’t want to hear it’
they might as well have called him a honkey
or an ofay
and as a bottle shatters on the street
mere inches from his aide’s feet
he stands down, shaken
saying:

‘You try to talk to those people and they’ll knock you
into the middle of next year.’

III

They had the best mayor in the land
the one who came in on a promise that
he’d put in a chief of police
one who understood the nature of the stress
the black man experienced
merely trying to walk to get a late night brew
on streets familiar enough that he should have been
known to any uniform
vice squad or unmarked cruiser patrolling that beat

The folks said the mayor’s appointment
of Justice Edwards as the new chief
was as reassuring and prideful a moment
as President Johnson’s placement of Marshall
on the highest court in the land

Edwards, it should be said, was himself
a white man.

IV

Three young men
all suspect
by virtue of the color
of their skin
were simply dining late
and taking it all in
when a mysterious act
on the floor below
led to shouts of sniper!
and the arrival
of the police and the Guard
so that within a couple of hours
all three young men were dead

Should it be said
that it was fitting that
these deaths occurred in
a motel known as the Algiers
a city famous for a colonial war
that had been lost by the same power
that had passed the baton of its flailing
effort at curbing insurrection in another
formerly colonial land
and that these United States had taken up
a similar mission civilatrice
in that other corner of the brown and yellow world
only to find that bombs and martial superiority
couldn’t cure the clear intent of those yellow ni&*^rs
to no longer take orders from a white Christian face
if it could be replaced by a party or committee
that preached power and proffered proof
that power is still power
even if means to be lord of a pile of rubble.

Jeremy Nathan Marks

Third nature

Third nature

‘Lawns are nature purged of sex or death. No wonder Americans like them so much.’
-Michael Pollan (Second Natue: A Gardener’s Education)

‘All over the wide fields of earth grows the prunella or self-heal.’
-Ralph Waldo Emerson (“Nature”)

Everything in America was second nature

To take what the Good Lord gave
and turn it into His divine perfection
was the legacy you were supposed to leave

It’s the skyline of Chicago
It’s that catacomb in New York
of the world’s greatest subway system
It’s the Intracoastal Waterway
and retractable domes
where professional sports teams play.

But now we’re into the third

And it isn’t Ralph Waldo Emerson
or Henry David Thoreau anymore

Perhaps it’s Hawthorne’s pessimism
or the condemnations of Babbitt and More

Maybe it’s that fist in the soft tissue
of a young man’s face
when he reads a water stained book
in his high school history class
talking about time-and-a-half

Maybe it’s an aspersion cast
at a woman who wants to be a mother
or a mother who wants to leave her children
during the day
and go on to become a lawyer
or someone else’s caregiver

Maybe it’s the ongoing neglect
of the Sun Dance
the piety of a sunrise mass
or the wherewithal of the atheist

Maybe its a Congressman watching the polar caps melt
while talking with scientists who have experience
and training to guide him through the patterns
of their empirical arguments
as he laughs and says carbon enriches our food

A third nature, yes
where Jeffersonianism
is somehow Clintonism
but really it’s amnesia
since the power of the executive
is just what Montesquieu said it shouldn’t be
and which Schlesinger warned was a sin
if it wasn’t wielded by a Kennedy.

It’s a virtual walk
through a virtual prairie
with cyber wolves
and grizzly avatars

It’s a week at a gated retreat
or a cruise through the detritus gyre
which our medications say doesn’t exist
as our world will be consumed by revelatory fire

It’s life knowledge without life wisdom
a post modern where a cigar isn’t a cigar
where when your insurance is taken
if you decry your loss
it’s you who are mistaken.

Jeremy Nathan Marks

I am looking for a girl

I am looking for a girl

‘I’m looking for a girl who has no face
She has no name, or number
And so I search within this lonely place
Knowing that I won’t find her
Well, I can’t stop this feeling deep inside me’ -Traffic

‘Fare thee well gone away
There’s nothing left to say
‘cept to say adieu’ -The Pogues

-for ‘Nadine’

I am looking for a girl
whom Joyce Carol Oates contrived
for some lonely, half-crazed
son of poor white trash
back in nineteen sixties Detroit

She wears tennis shoes
tennis skirts
bangles and is a brunette
destined never to work a day
in her life

She can smell the fires wafting down
Jefferson Ave
moved by a siren’s breeze
she could wonder whether the lover she shot
is caught in the thick of those things
a far greater indifference wouldn’t claim

Her patron
the man who lets his children
do how they feel
be it hunting each other
busting jungle bunkers
or bearing ‘eyes as blue
as the water in the bay’
knows that this is the way
of free born children of the USA

I seek her up that same Jefferson Ave
past the habits and habitats
of belled wolves
and plaited deer

I am nearly certain that I see her
swinging down Woodward
coming out of Hudson’s
trailing eau de cologne
like a song

That is until I hear a rifle shot
from a sniper
that is actually a firecracker
while her smoking pistol
drops into her purse

The Guard, police
the Airborne
they storm off toward Clairmount.

Jeremy Nathan Marks

This poem appears in the July 24th, 2017 edition (today’s) of vox poetica. You can also read it here: http://voxpoetica.com/i-am-looking-for-a-girl/

Note: ‘Nadine’ is a character from Joyce Carol Oates’ National Book Award-winning novel Them. The poem takes its title from the 1967 song “No Face, No Name, No Number” by the British rock band Traffic. You can listen to the song here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pbVo5LlmrJY

Sin to say

Sin to say

It is now a sin to say
‘least’
but you can’t say
‘poor’
because poor is, above all, boring

And to be boring is, of course,
something to deplore

You can’t say ‘black’
because black should be ‘ethnic’
and ethnic should mean
‘white’
while white should be objective
and transparent to truth

Can a man say call me ‘she’
or a woman mean ‘he’ when she says
‘look at me’?

And what is sin
if not a mark of membership
a covenant
and a declension

Words that are not said
phrases you aren’t supposed to say
never ring more true
than when understudies
perform in their place

The star of each show
is the long shadow
impertinent, rancid, arresting
the actor who molests your blood
by unveiling meaning.

Jeremy Nathan Marks

Go to Detroit

Tomorrow is the 50th anniversary of the Detroit Riot. In the early morning hours of Sunday July 23rd, 1967 the vice squad raided an illegal after hours drinking establishment (known locally as a “blind pig”) and arrested more than 80 people who had gotten together to celebrate the homecoming for two GIs from Vietnam. This set off the worst riot to hit an American city in the 20th century.

Some say Detroit’s decline began with that riot. Others have shown that the decline is far more complicated than that and goes back at least to the early 1950s (The Origins of the Urban Crisis, Thomas J. Sugrue). But no matter what you may believe, Detroit is a city that needs to be rethought and re-seen. My poem is offered in that spirit on behalf of a city that I love.

Go to Detroit

Tomorrow it is fifty.
Fifty years since a blind pig was raided
and forty-three people died
and a city of more than 1.5 million
began a long narrative of declension
where the factories became shells
and bungalows were burned down
or became crack houses
and the chief business of the streets
was and is the criminal trade

So we’ve been told.

Go to Detroit.

People are starting businesses
and paying off mortgages
and cleaning eaves and gutters
washing salted winter streets

People are watching the return
of spring with the same anticipation
we all feel
sighting colourful migrations from afar

Go to Detroit.

Read about the lives that were lost
and talk with the lives that were not
while taking in the St. Clair breeze
on your East Side stroll

Over in Corktown
there are recently installed windows
at Michigan Grand
and the return of the prairie grasses
mingles with the toasts and raucous
laughter of young folks hoisting Founders
where the sound of the call to prayer lingers
in the air

Go to Detroit.

Get off of the Edsel Ford
the Chrysler or the Lodge
and park your car.
Open your doors and breathe
the breezy air
and hear the sounds of actual live people
and feel the same sunshine that tumbles down
on the Windsor side of the river
and feels warm in just the same way
on the other side of 8 Mile
as it does along Livernois.

Go. To. Detroit.

Jeremy Nathan Marks

Myrrh

Myrrh

When the pulp on the block
was at last bled out
I looked past
the privy and shamble fence

To the clapboard church
and dog, chained yard patched in
burrs he having swallowed
the creek bank shard
and bones

When that pulp turned hollow
I saw the flint spark
of dry January nights red
eye dust on the sill
those stars counting four footed
spectres

So I chased the chain loose
from my porch and what stole
beyond the barrel bled
out in myrrh.

Jeremy Nathan Marks

This poem appeared in the book Nature published by Writing for Peace, 2015.

Timid -Kallan Simms

Timid

Outrage. Disgust. Hostility. Silence. At my core, I am very different than my family. I know- vividly- what they think of where I live, who I’ve dated, what tattoos I’ve gotten, how I’ve voted, my independence, what I eat. Open discussions with them are impossible. I have never seen my grandparents so deeply offended as when they found out I voted for President Obama. My grandfather thought it was a personal attack; I was such a good kid, how could I?

This is not my grandfather’s America. We are no longer carefully divided into perfectly compact boxes. We are no longer purely male or female, Republican or Democrat, “good ole farm boys” or “them others,” this or that. My American experience had been one of conversation, open mindedness, fluidity, acceptance. I had bet my education, my life, my income, on this opening of the old-school mindset. Yes to fulfilling the need to belong. Yes to acceptance of the different. Yes, love everyone.

Until recently. What was once a fluid, evolving creature has returned to the boxes we all fooled ourselves into thinking were thrown out. Misogyny is once again dictating what is acceptable. I am hopeful that this a localized problem; one I have placed myself in. I no longer have the capacity to lie and say “everything will be fine, it’s someone else’s problem, I’m insulated and well protected.” It’s simply not true. It’s made me timid.

This attitude is a direct result of the political climate. Living in a homogeneous bubble makes it too easy to be small, go unnoticed. To let someone tell you to be quiet, don’t be different. It’s too easy to ignore the news, let ignorance be bliss. Too easy to laugh at offensive jokes, be polite and demure. Be seen and not heard.

This is not the time to be timid. This is the time to be selfish. Don’t let anyone tell you the things that affect your family, grabs your interest, keeps you connected to other like-minded humans, keeps you plugged into society, isn’t worthwhile. My stance today has to be bold, it has to make an effort. I do not owe anyone, anything that comes at the expense of my safety, of my opinions, my well being. Whatever my own life circumstances may be, whatever may be invading my own opinions and thoughts cannot be ignored.

We must continually fight the distraction of someone telling us to be common.

Kallan Simms

Kallan Simms has been a satellite technician, project manager and is currently an IT professional. Among those dull things, she also workers with raptors, dabbles in fiction writing, poorly maintains a DIY blog and dreams of living off the land. She lives in Wyoming with her husband, greyhound puppy (child), and ever-growing supply of books.

Torrent

Torrent

November woods rebound with a quiet ease, fathers
and sons dress and cuff those draped, pointed bucks

Shoulders that first learned to be lean turning rivets
and sockets can shoulder the kick from a long gun

On the break room wall is an art deco colliery print:
swarthy stacks, helmet, pick axe backed in amber

In the midtown museum the great four walled mural
features men such as these: shift clockers

They hear the whistle; the time card clicks; they wait
on a buck; they know their work.

The torrent in the blood, that lacquer of sweat, the sting
of liquor, that ache in the back, it cannot last.

Jeremy Nathan Marks

Note: This poem appeared (alongside “Don’t Walk”) in Morel Magazine in January 2017. To explore Morel you can go here: http://morelmag.ca