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Out from UnderI was a fish among the people then.From the vanguard, I became a warehouse Worker, a sous chef, a shopping center guard, A carpenter living in a trailer In southern Indiana. The revolution Treats its revolutionaries like A cardsharp parceling out his cards and I Was nine of diamonds in the slit half- Sole of a broken shoe. The phone tree died. The only places I could find to hide Were in high desert among survivalists And ganja-addled freaks. In Idaho One March, we took chainsaws to a frozen pond, Piled up block on block like fishtanks in A petshop in Chinese San Francisco. We were harvesting the winter, someone said. It was a long way from "The Eighteenth Brumaire," But tedious detail was nothing new. I had lived a brutal step-by-step Of pipe-bombs and hair-triggers, yet as I Became adept at keeping butter fresh In a tepid cedar box, washing my socks In the stream and setting them to dry on rocks, Living instant by tormented instant In the flesh--it grated. Ways of life I wanted war on were what hid me best. |
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Issue #9, May, 1999 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.