Bessie Smith sings on Sundays
Pressed, repressed, pressed on
Her voice tired & defiant plays on
In mono on stereo goes on
Moaning & urging like the ring
Of a church bell resonates on—
Nothing makes this emptiness thing
As good as she does—nothing
Makes you feel any something
Like she does—nothing.

There's that damned bird again
With its crazy hoot-dee-hoot
Like it knows I'm in earshot
Reminds me of the emptiness
Low fronts bring to the Strait
Gray voids islands & blanks out
Noon—
Summers shouldn't be this color
I'm standing in the driveway ready to go
When through the cedars, that loon.

(Pender Harbour, B.C. / 2001.08.22)

It's time to go, Gregory Corso,
Leave America & its imperfections
Behind—die while there's time
To believe you leave a democracy
Behind—oil men and status quo
Stole in 5 days after you turned
Your dark stare away from America
Move to footnotes & alsos
Resistance rests underground now
So go, Gregory Corso, just go.

(Gregory Corso, 1930-2001)

The simplest things are the hardest
To describe—that's why abstraction
Only looks easy—in fact
Calla lilies arrive verbless with
Broad green nouns for leaves—
At the center of a still life
Their strong straight stalks
Unwrap into adjectives—e.g.
Calla lilies can only be thought of
As cupped & white—already all ready.

I don't remember when I stopped sleeping
When I started simply keeping busy &
Going to bed when it was still light out
But not sleeping even with the lights out
Dreaming something about a bear
How much I admired her instinct sleeping
Through half a life—if only I could
Stay in bed—hibernate—not dreaming—
Let the vacuuming wait until April
Let dust build up where it will.

I saw U—Lake Ontario Club—
Late 1978—I was the one
Pogoing in back—spilling as
Much beer as I was drinking—
Genesee Cream Ale in green
Cans—U in ripped T-shirt—
Torn-knee jeans w/ guitar
On stage—I'd like to see U
Again—if you feel the same
Call me.

(Joey Ramone, 1951-2001)

Desire is deciduous—it falls away
Only to bud again—sometimes it
Brandishes a handgun—French kisses
A Montana redneck with its thick grain-
Alcohol tongue—other times it's
A Tibetan monk tossing flour from
Tall rock monastery walls powdering
The Earth with possibilities—then again
In a wink it's a wingless crow
Tumbling toward trouble.

All that remains is sadness & regret,
Padlocked hopes, imperfect couplets,
Theories by deconstruction revisionists,
Home videos of punks amok & spit—
All that remains is blow amps, sell-outs,
Repackaged soundtracks & archived anarchy,
Right-wing lies shot up mainstream,
Bouquets strapped to power pole shrines—
All that remains is a shaken land,
The sun rising in clouds of red.