Since no one is listening (as they aren’t allowed)

Since no one is listening (as they aren’t allowed)

‘Et quelques cris de haine
Versés par quelques vieux
Sur de plus vieilles qu’eux
Dont le corps s’ensommeille’ -Jacques Brel

-for Chelsea Manning

Since no one is listening
as they aren’t allowed
since they have blocked you at the border
in a Métis replay begun perhaps in 1870
when the policy was
undying fealty to her corpulent majesty
in contempt only for your mixed kind-

The historians will dutifully say that your enemy was in the right
that your soul is as black as all the black that is black and refuses not
to be black and therefore won’t die-

Since no one is listening
because no one is allowed to listen
because they have locked you in a cell and said
freak, hermaphrodite
and other things that rhyme with a march in double time
because they say the men who bomb mules and wells and tiny unweaned ones
are the real heroes
that we should strip your hair, your skin
your penis and anything that once made you a man
and paste it across the chest of generals in fruit salads of martial wonderment-

The politicians shall say dutifully that your enemy is right to make sure
that the emperor’s amanuensis deserves a fellowship, deserves to be heard
simply because he sits on power’s lap and power’s hand turns the stick up his trou

Since no one can hear the sounds of the American Way
and the Canadian Way (which is mostly a Yankee echo, not a thoughtful choice)
emanating from the corridors of the one panopticon where even today
they allow no television
the place where you were kept within the narrow lines
of their tweezer tongs of freedom-

Since no one hears beyond the fact that the blessed lone Black President
said it was fine to loosen the bombs and the barbs that you protested
but like an enlightened one commuted your sentence
so the gates of Harvard Yard
and now Sussex Drive
can remain closed to the unrepentant, unmerciful blast
of T’kiyah G’dolah for the principle (not the practice)
of what North American English-speaking democracies claim they mean to be.

Let everyone unite against you, Métis
because what are you anyway?
A woman who wore the uniform of your country
lying to your superiors that you had American gonads
with American fusillades that would curb and carve and repurpose
the brown skinned benighted lands?

Let everyone be denied a chance to form an opinion
because you scare the lies that wear suits and speak platitudes
called policy
that swim bare chested on Pacific beaches threatened
by the oil of the allies who are doing the power broker’s bidding
killing the people you showed were hardly the willing executioners
of the great brown multitudes designs on our burdensome thirsts.

The lies in suits who march in Pride Parades and say
‘I love your kind’
in two languages
and pledge compassion for the disappeared
while the ‘found’ and not-yet-missing
wait

Listen.

Tell me that I’ve written a screed.
Tell me that when I close my eyes and say
‘Post America’ when?
that I am just as sick as the twentieth century’s worst
martyrs and murderers of the American dream
and the Canadian ‘True North Strong and Free’

Whose victory day we’ve yet to see.

Publius

Advertisements

Shrewsbury Street

Shrewsbury Street

I suppose all that I really want some days
is to walk into a corner market
with a lunch counter and a juke box
order an ice cold Coke
and listen to men talk about baseball
faulty starters and local politics

If you think I’m kidding I swear that I am
sincere as this is a kind of American zen
I can practice and not feel entirely phoney

Even though it’s a wish I probably picked up
from some novel or old film
and though I’m sure to be disappointed when
it isn’t as photogenic an experience as I mean
it to be, it still won’t matter

There’s always the clatter
of coffee cups and faux porcelain plates
in an old diner
on Shrewsbury Street in Worcester, Mass
which I do remember

A diner with 6 booths
and hometown brewed Polar root beer
where you could order a plate
of Boston baked beans
a wedge of pie and refillable coffee
and the short order cook
who was a card
would let you stay late
talking about what a good man was
so long as he got a few words in
and you managed not to praise the Yankees.

Jeremy Nathan Marks

This poem has recently appeared at Ariel Chart: http://arielchart.blogspot.ca/2017/08/shrewsbury-street.html

She thinks that she saw it on Kercheval [Street]

She thinks that she saw it on Kercheval [Street]

She was a baby when her mother
brought her to the clinic on the corner
of Kercheval and McClellan
it was 1967

Moms & Tots was brand new then
and when the riot happened
the building didn’t burn

In the weeks and months
and years after
her mother, who was a renter
watched as For Sale signs appeared
all around
the neighbourhood grew increasingly
run down

Then one day in 71’
her father didn’t return
but she didn’t learn
until much later
that a cruiser
on Dequindre
picked him up
and committed murder
in an alley off the Chrysler.

By the time she reached high school
running track in the building
round the corner from Ossian Sweet’s
she would jog down the avenue
and young execs
in Volts and Cadillacs
would try and catch her eye
say hey girl
want some Vernors with your rye?

When she left the state to attend
an elite liberal arts college
she had no plans for a return
she was just following
that story told often in Michigan
that you once you’ve let
you just keep going.

But when her mother grew ill
and then when she passed
she ended up with the old bungalow
on Garland Ave
the one filled with old photos
and a presence she couldn’t abandon
so she sold her business in a sunbelt city
and made a move her friends couldn’t fathom

Back to the Big D
back to Motor City.

In the mornings
or in the evenings after work
when the sun sets late in summer
she runs

On she goes
past Moms & Tots
now abandoned
past the Chrysler plant on Mack
where her grandfather
a gifted mechanic
was hired
and fired
and hired again
in a seasonal ritual
that reminded her of ‘Harvest of Shame’
a documentary she watched in college

He kept this up until
at fifty-two
he lost his hand to a machine press
which began his second life as
the father his granddaughter couldn’t have.

Onward she runs and
feeling daring
turns right on Alter Road
crossing into the Pointe-

A former boyfriend told her
that her skin was light enough
that she could pass for some white Jamaican
or even a Caribbean Queen
a mulatto in the grand tradition
of Antoinette Cosway
grand dame of a former British colony
(she knew he’d read it all wrong)

She loops around and then
back on Kercheval again
she reaches the Country Club
a place where she’d been refused entry
despite being so elegantly dressed
and the invited guest
of an up-and-coming
someone from a downtown firm
(she was then home for the Christmas holidays)

He said hun,
let me take care of this-

But he didn’t return

Later he called her
it was a midnight drunken dial
saying sorry, hun,
I don’t know what come over me
there was this man I knew
important client for the firm
and had he seen what was going on
(his remaining words were inaudible).

The Garland Street house is going to get
a solarium
and two kinds of gardens
one Japanese
since she took a class in horticulture
the other
a good old fashioned southern patch
with kale and collards and mustards
and tomatoes, peas and squash
the kind her mother and her mama’s mother
taught her how to tend

And she’s going to do it all through her own
financing options
since the banks don’t want to lend
not even to an independently wealthy
prize-winning writer
and adjunct professor of public affairs
out in Ann Arbor.

Question is:
is this where her road ends?

If our planet is growing more crowded
as the papers and social media say
then the situation in the Big D
is truly grave

She recalls seeing children
run like mastodons
across lawns
in an era when
the hopes of Coleman Young
kept so many people buoyant
despite what the hometown papers
and the national media said

About corrupt unions
and crack cocaine
welfare mothers driving caddies
and black power meaning anarchy

The pavements,
lots and sidewalks were the domain
of so many young dreamers
with febrile imaginations
the envy of a Rousseau
kids who chased down
and played chicken with trains

How they still ran on the half
and quarter hours
all that rolling stock still bringing in steel
to build Valhalla
her grandfather always recalling
the dreams of Sloan and Ford
how you could barely keep count
of the steel ships moving down river
Detroit like some Dutch or Korean harbor.

It was an up-and-coming place
a space for men without graduate degrees
a city where a black man from Mississippi
could be a pensioner
after so many years of shop experience
still catching hate
but retiring in style
with little more than his Grade 8.

But she also remembers another place
a vast metropolitan space
bereft of the name of any woman
along its avenues or freeways
in its squares and plazas
that is
until they turned that burned out street
12th
into a monument to Ms. Rosa Parks
the main artery of the poorest hood
in the most notorious ghetto

Rosa
with her aura
called on to heal
the city’s burst ventricle!

Still, it was something
at least now the people formerly known as “them”
(and much worse)
were recognized to be deserving something more
than mere scraps and crumbs

But again,
was this to be the end of her road?

Every member from her family
who knew the city’s history
who made the story
of their migration here
to this sorry place
this noble, decrepit, glorious
city of the labor treaty
and the subprime fix
they were now gone

The best of what the city had to offer
had they taken that with them?

The answer to that question remains to be written.

-Jeremy Nathan Marks

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