September 13, 2010 (I was 65)
My generation gave the country away
We sent the work to India and Brazil
at handsome profit for some
Expecting what?
All our kids to be off shore managers?
We put our parents’ bombs in the basement
and only used the littler ones
Allowed deception to be our business
and took greed as our birthright
Allowed myths to be our faith
Though there is but one god
we each have our own
April 30, 2011 (I was 66)
THE JAILS An Adaptation of E. A. Poe, The Bells
(Hear me read both at JohnKallio.com Go to: Audio)
I
Hear the hinges in the jails -
County jails!
What a night of mischief their whining unveils!
How they grate and rasp and scrape
In the icy air of night
While the pimps that over-sprinkle
All the streets seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight.
Doing time, time, time
For a sort of Runic crime,
To the din incarceration inevitably wails
From the jails, jails, jails, jails,
Jails, jails, jails-
From the helling and the yelling of the jails.
II
Hear the mad prison wails –
The penitent flails!
What a tale of terror now his turbulency scales!
In the startled ear of night
How he screams out his afright!
Too much horrified to speak
He can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In futile expostulation to the deaf from the barred.
In his clamorous appealing to the mercy of the guard,
Crying higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And his resolute endeavor
To invoke a now or never
From a mute and timeless moon.
Oh the jails, jails, jails!
What a tale their terror tells
Of despair!
How they clang and clash and roar!
What a horror they outpour.
Pounding heartbeats perturbate the air!
Yet the ear fully knows
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger grows and grows.
The ear distinctly details
From the screwing
And tattooing
How the danger nails and impales
In the wrangling and the mangling in the anger of the jails –
Of the jails,
Of the jails, jails, jails, jails
Jails, jails, jails –
In the clamor and the clangor of the jails!
III
Hear the moaning from the jails –
Foreign jails!
What a world of solemn thought their monody assails!
Of the tortures in the night
How we shiver at the sight
And melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
Ah, the people that we accuse,
Detainees that we abuse
Are alone.
And who keeps the cagelings captive
In their muffled monotone
Feels a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone.
They are neither man nor woman -
They are neither brute nor human –
They are Ghouls.
And our country collects the tolls
Of their subhuman souls, souls, souls;
Souls
Sounding from the jails!
Our sense of justice fails,
Drowning in the jails!
We steal their time, time, time
for a sort of punic crime
Resounding in the jails –
Keeping time, time, time
In a sort of Runic rhyme
To the throbbing of the jails,
Of the jails, jails, jails –
To the sobbing of the jails;
Keep time, time, time
As he wails, wails, wails,
In terror, terrorist tales
Revolting in the jails!
In the jails, jails, jails –
To the jolting of the jails,
Of the jails, jails, jails, jails,
Jails, jails, jails –
To the moaning and the groaning of the jails.
January 17, 2009 (I was 64)
When you’re young you enter dangerous deals
not knowing nor daring to know it
when the house of the dealer has guns upstairs
and drifting beings lost in the hall
and his patient wife with the bad back
has a legit excuse to take pills for the pain
and the guy with ten teeth is staying for dinner
When you’re young you don’t know how trouble feels
and when whatever you’re waiting for is late
but the money is paid so you wait and you wait
the dishes are in the sink his kids hidden away
and some other what-the-fucks show up
but no deal so you leave Later you say Tomorrow
you hear fuck-up got shot in the knee and the shit’s in
When you’re old it’s about friends in the business
a visit with handshakes and hugs
and how is the family a knowing concern
There’s a fire in the woodstove
abalone to be pounded breaded fried and eaten
a reunion of those at the summer vacation home
and everything packaged and on account
January 16, 1975 (I was 30)
How Gary Became a Bartender
The door was kicked in
pointing guns stockings over faces
three of them all over the room
and gun at his head said
The money and the stash Now
I’ll blow your fucking brains out
Gary gave up the cash said Refrigerator
which held the hash
and was pistol smashed in the face
Look at the floor Big One said
musta weighed three hundred
Where’s the Coke
No coke said Gary looking at the floor
Don’t tell me that shit
grabbed Shelly by the hair
45 between the eyes said
Where The Fuck’s The Coke
no coke she said and Gary’s face
was pushed into the floor
Where are your Guns
Just one behind the door
I should stick it in your mouth
Take off your clothes
Get in the other room
Come out the door and you’re dead
lights went out
stood naked waiting
for silence
night blew into the house
they were gone
with the stash
and twenty-two hundred in cash
June 27, 1970 (I was 25)
rhubarb poem
Each summer in a neighboring yard
rhubarb stalks folded their green umbrellas
to squeeze through the picket fence.
I followed the dry transition from leaf to leather
and awaited a moment of divine inspiration.
Rhubarb is swiped alone.
There’s no camaraderie in it
not like the apple trees watched by gangs
in anticipation of darker raids.
This is spontaneous crime, second degree
decided just after dusk, too light to go home
but night enough for fear,
a shock to make fence jumping easier.
Two three four stalks snapped and out
and up the alley before a thought of freedom
so sweet and tart, sour celery dipped in sugar
March 27, 1971 (I was 26)
for WCW
I was arrested
in the woods
smoking a joint
and reading poetry
I do not think
I’d have been arrested
had I not been reading poetry
March 16, 1970 (I was 25)
He chose it
God everyone knows
it is just that very thing
that makes us men
We always bring it on ourselves
(and then we scream
The bastards screwed us)
Doesn’t it seem we must
own up to half of what we are
Of course there is that far chance
he was innocent
and if his truthful ardor is constant
he will accept the nails
Of what use is a living martyr
from this week in 2010 (I was 66)
I know people are afraid to speak
about the unspeakable and unmentionable
knowing it will put them on a list
that will impede or even restrict travel
To question makes them sympathizers
to associate makes them guilty
vulnerable to detachment
and government claims that they are one of them
or at least complicit dupes
Even to research or inquire rouses suspicion
It’s McCarthyism without a name
Categories of lists intersect electronically
I know people who won’t vote
afraid to mention suspected impropriety
places them on another list waiting to be counted
The government is only Little Brother
Secret Agencies Corporate Entities
International Banking Privatized Armies
Mythical Job Markets employing from lists
buy educated employees with pennies and threats
A class kept in poverty as a buffer
from the starving class they will be required to eradicate
While those whose job it is to deflect taxes
Wiki-leak their open admiration
for the Smartest Men In The Enron Room
whose only mistake was getting on a list
