Breakfast at the End of Capitalism
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BREAKFAST AT THE END OF CAPITALISM Michael Dickel Locofo Chaps Chicago, 2017 Breakfast at the end of Capitalism Copyright © 2017 Michael Dickel Locofo Chaps is an imprint of Moria Books. More information can be fo!nd at www.moriapoetry.com Co#er image: Liberty Trumped ©2017 Michael Dickel Locofo Chaps is dedicated to p!blishing politically-oriented poetry. Chicago, U'(, 2017 Acknowledgements Many of these poems (in some cases in earlier versions) originally appeared in print or online thanks to the generosity of the editors of the following: Te BeZine, Diogen pro kultura magazin / pro culture magazine, Haaretz, Te Minnesota Daily, oems for a Li"able Planet, #ync$ronized C$aos, w$y vandalism? +ther poems originally appeared on Michael Dickel,s blog, Fragmentarily. Meta-Phor(e) /Play (MichaelDickel.info*. Tree poems here also appear in Dickel,s collection, 'ar Surrounds Us )1s a Rose Press, 2015): Again, As the War Contin!es, and Nightmare. 1ndi#idual Poems ©1991–2017 Michael Dickel MichaelDickel.info T ABLE OF CONTENTS Breakfast at the end of capitalism888888881 Dung Beetle8888888888888888888888882 only the smoke88888888888888888888889 Lately88888888888888888888888888888: /ersian G!lf War Song 8888888888888883 (s the War Contin!es8888888888888888< 'o thirsty=8888888888888888888888887 (gain88888888888888888888888888888> Werewol#es8888888888888888888888886 'trange Fire8888888888888888888888811 -alse prophecy88888888888888888888812 (merika for special lies88888888888888813 5ightmare88888888888888888888888814 Warm H!nger88888888888888888888815 Climate change88888888888888888888817 Dream-World Ecology88888888888888818 'ong of Obscurity88888888888888888819 Circulating Lang!age Manifesto8888888821 (pocalyptic Winter8888888888888888822 Do!ble life88888888888888888888888823 Deconstr!ction 8888888888888888888824 'torm Sea888888888888888888888888825 (bo!t the poet 8888888888888888888826 B REAKFAST AT THE END OF CAPITALISM 1t rained last night, the skies are clo!dy this morning and it may yet rain some more. 1 am ha#ing coAee in )n *erem. Moshe,s class presented a program on Bialik, singing a poet,s song and considering poetry already at age 6. My grown da!ghters are acti#ists who oppose a president of do!btful legitimacy. Poets will read today all o#er the &S as part of (at least) two national organiBing eAorts protesting this corporate o#erlord. 1n 5ew Cork City some will read at the library, some at city hall. @ach empire in its time comes to an end. We s!r#i#e and mo#e on. /oets will sing this in harmonies and dissonances. 'omeone writing a history of all this will show that we do not !nderstand more than a few train-car lengths of BenDamin,s wreck. 0e (ngel of ?istory always weeps, !t we manage to make lo#e and to raise children and to contin!e. 0e 3E cottage cheese promised by the men! was missing. 1n its place, labene$—a better choice. Te breakfast at )n Kerem t!rns o!t to be very good. 1 Breakfast at the end of capitalism D UNG BEETLE Like so many American men 1 eat too m!ch fat. My body has gone fabby with wordsF 1 wrap aro!nd my skeleton, weary m!scles cling to desperately. 1 am j!st a hard-shelled beetle s!rro!nding myself in dung. (s this tight little t!rd ball rolls down the gra#el road, a giant carp opens its gaping ma" D!st where I pl!nge into the waterF the fsh, unafraid to eat shit, sa#ors the hard cr!nch of shell and sweet j!ices released. I feel thin the moment my world ca#es in. 2 Breakfast at the end of capitalism ONLY THE SMOKE a black woman stopped in a certain book re#iew, and she said: and not t$e pulse coursing+ Te wind must apologize. As we sing songs o! freedom and mourning, books burst c$annels+ B!t itIs cam-corder lo#e — eJcept thro!gh sed!ction, with his hand on the cord for her frst choice —he was so relie#ed that she did not ask. 1 am not pretending here 1 heard from someone who knew her. -.d lo"e to beat t$e s$it/ My ho!se, the white clerk tho!ght, only the smoke that rose abo#e only the smoke …out o! your stupid lily-w$ite ass+ /!shing me into reminders of someone else,s eJperience, say by p!blishing a poem after, so that someone belie#es. 'ometimes we m!st contin!e fasting. Sweat and steam enginesF he ne#er e#en charged for them, that it was that book, the frenBied ri#er, the ghetto of Chicago, the TA for Taylor A#en!e store= —t$ese are lies—t$e warmt$ can ne"er fade t$roug$ it and blending wake-fullness, t!mbling me into 'ant in here? W$at do/ …which co!ld open the curtain, he sighs, and twists each sheet aro!nd with the other p!lseF you& 3 Breakfast at the end of capitalism L ATELY Lately II#e been waiting for the FB1 to arrest me as a fra!d, or the C1( to hire me to spy on the inner li#es of fools and idiots. Last night torrents of water fooded my sleep; o#erGowing ri#ers of m!d and shit streamed down walls and into basements, washing away s!mp p!mps, drowning ele#ators, eroding fo!ndations. /erhaps the E/( will come after me now, or the Army Corps of Engineers. 'l!ggish, I can hardly mo#e my body o!t of bed as the cold air weighs hea#ier than the warmth of lo#e-making that is, for the moment, eight time%Bones away. Remodeling a ho!se takes too m!ch time but selling it seems a copper-pipe dream. /erhaps the Corps will hoist me up using a crane and sol#e the dilemma of the unHnished bathroom pl!mbing and walls. 0e B!ddhists recommend letting go of materials and wishes, !t I still blow o!t birthday candles and buy lottery tickets and ask old lo#ers if they remember me fondly, at least. 1Id hide like the iron gnome in my garden, under m!shroom !mbrellas, if I tho!ght it wo!ld help sol#e the problem of the world. Te United Nations co!ld feed me, then, and the C1( try to assassinate me instead of hire me, and the FB1 pay me as an informant, while the Army Corps of Engineers !ilds a le#y to hold me in and the E/( declares me a disaster. 0en CohenIs monks j!st la!gh and la!gh and la!gh. Tey kno" 1 wonIt win the lottery and the only birthday wish that comes tr!e is the present, old lo#ers forget the past, and the neJt bedM Too warm. 4 Breakfast at the end of capitalism P ERSIAN GULF WAR SONG Lions and tigers, bears, oh my, eagles and snakes, each in their lair. We,re at war! At war! Many will dieN 2eporters fy, circling, ask why the stench of smoked fesh still flls the air. Lions and tigers, bears, oh my. 2o!sed from their high lofty lair to spy the raging current eroding where we,re at war, (at war many will die), the eagles say: Let sleeping pens lie+ Democracy decrees it is fairN Lions and tigers, bears! Oh my. 0e oil-torches, burning way high, are a beacon for those who don,t care we,re at war, and at war, many will die. Dollars, cents from the carpets that fy, corporate chieftains cackle this fare$ Lions and tigers, bears, oh myN We,re at war! At war! Many will dieN 5 Breakfast at the end of capitalism A S THE WAR CONTINUES i 0at war in the little so!thwest strip, its violence drowns o!t all so!ndsF words drain of meaning and become white spaces against blood-red paper. 0e n!mbers rise up, a large pile of bodies reaching toward the s!n to ignite and burn, a pyre signaling the beginning or end of a sacred timeF ii the bodies pile up, reach for the s!n, hoping to burn like stars to light this dark, dark night= !t we all seem to ha#e lost track, o!r watches no longer ticking but #ibrating with technical accuracy seconds and micro-seconds while this fame of fesh, a mere candle wick, iii Gashes o!t into space in search of eJtraterrestrial compassion. And ;aBa,s hea#enward tower of bodily Babel e#en shrinks against so many others, this massi#e world-war of death spreading o!t aro!nd us while we sho!t o!t who is to blame, who eJcept for o!rsel#es, o!rsel#es i# t!rning away into silence and denial, pointing at someone easier than seeing a world aro!nd us in un-holy fames cremating the innocent along with the bloody-handed ones. Yet, the s!nset is so bea!tiful belo" the clo!ds and o#er the sea, the moon so light foating in the sky abo#e an orange clo!d on this Tu B2A". 6 Breakfast at the end of capitalism S O THIRSTY… 1 am almost back perhaps. Te long s!mmer ordeal of stress, rockets, war, death, killing has mo#ed oA into Syria and IraO and left us barren for a moment. ( bit of rain falling today hints at winter being wet. We need water. We always need water. So thirsty. 0e brown hills will green again, and the dry beds recently r!n with bloody water will wash thoro!ghly so fowers may wa#e their red-yellow-white-p!rple cacophony of emotions in winter,s permissi#e grace.