|
Text of Poems - Spoken Word
George Carlin Said (2008) ** strong
language
God Has a Plan B (2004)
The
Last Liberal in Utah (2003)
Ode
to Stolen Moments (2003)
The Patriots
Have Acted (2006)
Technophobes
Anonymous (2003)
This President
(2005)
Voices of Change
(2003)
George Carlin Said (** strong
language)
Fuck Hope?
Fuck no, George!
You gave me more hope
than
any holy trinity of bloviating talking heads..
Hope and ranting rage
against Nixon, Reagan, Catholic
dogma and injustice.
Hope and the courage to be despised and
taunted
and alone in the support of principle.
Hope and
forgiveness to commit trespass
and sit in lockup under guard
of gas masks and attack dogs.
Hope in the knowledge that wordy
crowns of thorns
can cross boundaries and open hearts.
Hope isn’t the milk and cookies before bedtime
that
lures you into a false sense of security.
Hope is the
rudderless, whiskey-barrel boat
that sails on a windy wing and
a prayer for guidance.
Hope lies not in feel-good speeches and
on-line petitions
but in feather boas and bombast, human
shields and barricades.
Hope is that itching, fist pumping
irritation
that upthrusts middle finger and taunts you into
action.
We used to shout at Nixon, “Make Love not War!”
Let
us joyfully copulate with hope;
make lots of little
hopes
little black, brown, red, yellow
pink, blue and white
hopes
who will go and fuck more hopes
till we breed away
lethargy and despair.
As you go ungently into that good night*
rest in hope,
George, and rest in peace -
as if that were possible.
Fuck.
* Dylan Thomas (without the”un”
God Has a Plan B
I have figured out why
Bush, Ashcroft, Rove and
Falwell
fear the woman with choice –
Because her god can
beat their god
with one arm tied behind her back
Her god, my god has a Plan B.
My god is not foiled
by the knitting needle, the coat
hanger
the pennyroyal, periwinkle, RU-486
or the
compassionate physician.
My god does not stand helplessly by
wringing her hands
and
whining to the next
Ghandi, Mother Teresa
Albert
Einstein or Margaret Sanger
why they’ll never be born.
She
just fills out a new boarding card
pats them on the head
and
sends them on their way.
I have always known my limitations.
It is not for me to
decide
which spirits will grace this earth.
But it is for
me to decide
whether to invite them
into my body and into
my life.
When the Great Mother comes knocking –
The
answer can be no.
So to patriarchs everywhere –
Have a little faith in
the powers that be.
Render unto God what is God’s -
But
render unto Woman what is Woman’s.
The Last Liberal in Utah
Inspired by a cartoon by Pat Bagley
I chafe at my exile in the holy city,
but I am not
afraid to fight.
I will ignore the propaganda on sidewalk placards -
enrichment by invitation,
creativity by appointment
and
offer richer, rockier paths
I will ignore the foghorn whispers
of Big Brother and
pulpit politics -
a social politburo of conformity
and
live a life of diversity
I will forgive but not forget the constant trespasses
on
my front porch and on my patience
of dark-suited young men in
bicycle helmets
and offer debate to faith.
I will protest idiocy by elected officials
though it
seems I am shouting at the rain,
and offer solutions rather
than shields
I will homeschool my children in civil disobedience
to
defy theocracy and narrow-mindedness
and create dialogue
One day I will stand frozen in time
arm upstretched like
Socrates
in my glass case.
Will young girls in blond braids and modest jumpers
clutch
their mother’s hands in confusion
staring up at my contorted
caricature;
as unfamiliar a breed as
the Sacagawea or the
Susan B Anthony
on their brothers’ coins?
The last liberal in Utah.
Ode to Stolen Moments
It is impossible
to open a Skippy jar in silence -
I
surreptitiously swirl the spoon full
and raise it
engorged
and glistening
to my eager lips.
I slide my tongue firmly
up one side
and then down the other,
Pressing it against
the roof of my mouth
Bathing it with saliva
And in a burst
of flavor
Letting it sublime down my throat.
The Patriots Have Acted
This piece was originally performed March 8, 2006 at
the "Art of Anti-War" at Under the Bridge Coffee House
in Salt Lake City on the very day that Congress passed the "new
and improved" Patriot Act. I was dressed as a pink tie-dyed
Statue of Liberty, draped in the lovely orange construction
fencing the NYPD used to round up protesters in NYC in July 2004.
When I walked out on stage, I had masking tape over my mouth with
the words "Patriot Act" printed on them. I ripped off
the tape and started into the tirade to open the show. Here's a
photo
of the costume.
The barbarians have moved beyond the gate
with shackles
and muzzles and leashes.
These patriots who claim to defend
liberty
are forging ther bars of our cages.
Two to one, two
to one
These thieves of imagination
these voyeurs of
conscience
smugly bartered our freedoms away to fear.
We cannot sit down and be quiet;
we can not sit by and
allow
the Bill of Rights to be sold on the cheap.
Come November,
we will burn down that House.
This President
This piece was performed at the Counter Inauguration in
Salt Lake City January 20, 2005. People for Peace and Justice
posted a photo here.
Over the past weeks, we have truly seen a glimpse of what
the next four years hold for the United States.
This President, rather than seeking consensus on critical
issues, plans on using “political capital” to ram through a
divisive ideological agenda.
This President is seeking to dismantle Social Security, the
most efficient and effective social program of this century, in
favor of the Wall Street largesse of privatization.
This President has nominated for Attorney General, a man
who has said that the Geneva Conventions were quaint, and who
splits verbal hairs about the definition of torture.
This President has nominated for Secretary of State, a
woman who has consistently deferred to ideology, and has shown a
questionable regard for truth.
This President has retained the services of a Secretary of
Defense whose disregard for troop welfare has caused even members
of his own party to call for his resignation.
This President refuses to acknowledge even the possibility
of mistakes in his prosecution of the War in Iraq, and in so
doing is prolonging it, resulting in the loss of even more
American and Iraqi lives.
This President has refused to hold accountable any but the
few low ranking “bad apples” responsible for the torture, and
cruel and inhumane treatment of detainees.
This President is now suspected of authorizing covert
military operations in 10 other countries, to scout possible
targets in future wars.
This President has said that the accountability moment has
passed; that because he was re-elected, any perceived
shortcomings or misconduct by his administration in the war on
terrorism are now beyond questioning.
Some of my CodePINK colleagues are in Washington as we
speak, and some of them are carrying signs that say "Not my
President." I have to disagree with them. As emotionally
satisfying as this sentiment is, it seems to absolve us of our
duties as citizens. I will not allow myself this self-indulgence.
Whether I like it or not, this president IS my President. His
re-election is not my fault, but his tenure WILL be my
responsibility.
I will not hide for the next four years, I will not sit
down and be quiet, I will not sit by and allow the great promise
of liberty and democracy to be destroyed in the name of
international adventurism, and global hegemony.
Today, this President took the oath of office. But it
remains to be seen whether he WILL preserve, protect and defend
our constitution. His whitewashing of the conduct of
administration officials, the encroachments on civil liberties,
and the blatant disregard for human rights suggest otherwise.
Today, I am taking an oath of office, as an activist and
resistor, and I invite you to take it with me.
I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute
the
Office of Citizen of the United States,
and will to the best
of my ability, preserve, protect and defend
the constitution
of the United States.
Technophobes Anonymous – Luddite
Confession
Hello, my name is Eileen
And I am a technophobe
Oh
sure, I’m a SOFTWARE engineer
And I probably shouldn’t
burst your bubble,
But all that really means
Is that I sit
at my desk
And type those special words
A computer want to
hear
Really like whispering sweet nothings
Like phone
sex
No contact is ever actually made
That would mean
dealing with ELECTRONICS.
Oh, I’ve gone and said it
I suppose it’s nothing to
be ashamed of
My father is an electrical engineer
And he
has trouble with Email and Windows
But he can take the fucking
printer APART.
Maybe it’s one of those Yin-Yang,
Left
brain right brain things
Really, I am a tool-using mammal
Is it rational to be afraid of something you can’t
see?
There are words that glaze my eyes
And send chills up
my spine
Microchip
Circuit board
Network
AUTO EXEC
DOT BAT
If I could manage it
I would ban the insidious
devices
From my home
From my car
From my kitchen
appliances
Denial?
Well, perhaps
I did manage to write
software for 7 years
Without ever letting a computer into my
home
I didn’t own a VCR until 1990
I resisted fuel
injection until 1996
And I ran screaming from cell phones
until 1999.
I still can’t set the clock in my car
Yet, I suppose it was inevitable
That Silicon
Valley
Would eventually find its way into my costume studio
It’s my new
4 Thread
Convertible
Overlock
Sleek
and sexy
Programmable with Liquid Crystal Display
That came
with a 12 inch
Binder of documentation
And an
instructional video.
I thought I was high-maintenance
I
feel like I need to
Take her out to dinner
And talk dirty
to her
Before I can slip my fingers under her covers.
I revel in my 1978 Sears Kenmore sewing machine
Sturdy
cast aluminum,
Completely devoid of microchip
technology
Careworn with chipped paint
And old masking
tape guidelines
Ever responsive to the flick of a dust
brush
And a drop of machine oil
Between her smooth steel
gears
If my beloved ever dies
I will hold an Irish
wake
Send her off with a Viking Funeral
And wear widow’s
weeds.
Better yet
Give me cast iron and oak,
The gentle
whirr of the leather belt
As I turn the wheel
The pull up
the back of my calf
As I work the treadle.
My shoulders
arched
My arms tensed,
Embracing the fabric.
My fingers
Gently
Insistently
Approach the needle
A simple machine that wants me
For my body
Not my
mind.
Voices of Change
The Quaking Aspens grow here in the valley;
I see them
in careful, furtive
hursts of two or three;
awkward, cut
off from kin,
stifled by suspicious suburbanites
who
admire and fear
their beauty and their clear voices.
They
encircle them in concrete,
severing their secret
proliferation
and controlling their sustenance.
In the high country
away from fear
out of
bounds
multitudes send forth runners
rising up through all
adversity
persistent as a rule
pernicious if
necessary
through soil and glade
stone and slope
a
single communal organism
some scarred and gnarled with
effort
others with smooth clear skin and lithe straight
limbs
spreading
seeking
growing
gathering.
In their time,
in their season
tapping deep into the
wellspring
raising up
stretching singing arms
trembling
floral cascades
shimmering green leaflets
waving exuberant
arms as one
bending, swaying
resilient to winds of
change
rabble rousing leaves of gold
raining down golden
treasure
bending
learning
reaping
sustaining.
Now silent, now vigilant
sentinels in the
snow
waiting
thinking
knowing
whispering
sap
rising again in the spring.
|
