So the Democrats Win: A Poem for the Democrats
I would like to ban the words: machine, fountain, and snow
metallic drinking fountain
truth has an accent
and some machines drop radios made of microwave parts
tumbling from a communal bathhouse
bassquiet stands up
Gregor Gregorovich (a favorite character of: 0 users)
pours the last of the gin over the computer
-that fucking does it, he says and suddenly cries, I’m jewish! I can’t feel my eyes!
-come on you two, says Yassen Gregorovich.
-what are you, the gestapo?
-come on fellas.
-jeez just let us finish our drinks.
-you’re finished; lets go.
-look, says bassquiet, it’s peter.
-what’s it doing up there? asks Gregor Gregorovich.
-maybe he has something to say about a memoir, says bassquiet, and leaves through the back door.
(peter, dribbling briskly into position, in front of his goal, squaring up to encompass his own destruction.)
When I missed your flight
sitting in a new way
-don’t shoot, cries Gregor Gregorovich.
-don’t jump, says Yassen Gregorovich.
-give him air, says the violinist in bar light.
(peter continues, a transcription without notes.)
not anything about love or poetry or st. leningrad
or hymenoptera models
of roots and branches
standing in opposition to themselves
-It’s Sibelius’ Violin Concerto in D minor, says the violinist.
(peter sways and takes a drink of water.)
the airport smells like an old couch
the old woman asks you to watch her bag
I think about the impact this act will have on the U.S. economy
the female asks the male
sit on the floor
she puts her head in his lap
he watches the escalator
meat being moved into its places
-I can’t stand it, cries Gregor Gregorovich.
-Oh, the horror, the horror, says Yassen Gregorovich.
-The horror, the horror, repeats the violinist.
I am hiding
in the imagined thoughts of others
in the fat woman’s conversation with her bags about security
the old woman in the bathroom
sitting on the toilet
the ghost of my death
the light of my hour
(peter puts a hand to his brow and falls to the floor.)
a gathering crowd:
-there are of course limits
we wait peacefully
like something from a haiku
just like the plane was never invented, mumbles peter coming tWo…
-somebody give him a bank card, says the violinist.
when I left
when I was scheduled to leave
-take the mean and multiply it by the square root of (t)1, suggests Gregor Gregorovich.
-are the people on the conveyer belt transplanted into sausages? asks Yassen Gregorovich.
packed into planes
packed into planes
taken back to Africa
fed to my grandmother’s dictator
clutching his nappies
hemorrhaging –bleeding from the ass
dreaming of a yellow meadow from a movie
(peter gets up, wobbly on his feet. Mandy Potemkin walks through the small doors in the back, takes him under the arm, smiles weakly toward Gregor Gregorovich and the violinist. Yassen Gregorovich takes him under the other arm.)