Ode to a Beaten Church

barrooms as homes for broken generations

fleeing intently

runaway railroad cars

streaming down toothless tracks

wet with the fire of endless failures

attitudes of garnished laughter

wild, sad enough to avoid the constant barroom tv blue light,

stagnant cold beers,

the screaming obscenities of doctors’ reports

faking hip empathic carings,

avoiding waitresses nervously eyeing the quiet troublemaker,

alcohol can transform anyone

change a soccer player into a dramatist

alter ego

develop clichés

words with no depth

exaggerate whispers from flirtatious animals in heat

who once collectively realized their lives were on the line

but still chose audacious clothes and thick red cough syrup,

the forsaken generations

forgetting the struggles of those before this Poetry,

instead listening to the migraine of television,

bookless,

collapsing into each others’ external fantasies of

hot rock and roll,

cool music

loud music

gesticulating music,

wilting beneath skeletons with groomed hair and shiny silver nails

retreating like punching bags

then returning to revisit the inertia of violence,

more of the same

as it was the last time,

all those generations,

careless,

wallowing:

where mass media at last has replaced any image of self-respect,

where the children sing car commercials,

unchanged sad helpless somnambulant eternal desolation angels

so confused of what to live for,

the blatant repetition of contentedness,

nothing extraordinary here,

no crisis here,

no dim vague puzzling streets to glimpse a miracle of the mind’s breath,

only polite cynical laughter with the trimmings,

simple hospitality of this age destined to reinvent slavery

shackled to their barroom dreams so consistent and predictable,

only the rapists and destiny hitters now take to the stage,

screw Lenny Bruce

Emily who

and forget Ginsberg-

the American banking system has become bard and laureate!

oh where are my armies now?

have we forsaken ourselves

one another

to the incessant volume of mass media?

does it always take tidal waves

fires in the night

to sober us up straight again?

so relaxed we are

mass alienated apathy on the tip of a match,

striking,

cosmic suicide and romantic decadence out of control,

deodorized and passionless

obese and swooning the surface of an apology

yes, it is us we need to declare

gaze intently into each other’s mirrors before the magic’s all used up

becomes confined

impassable like frozen waterlines out there lifeless

beneath some lonely midnight below zero highway

waiting for cigarette butts and phantom secretaries to fill in the potholes

choosing immobility

mindlessly leaning over perfect tables to discern the violence of prostitution,

the clash of old discarded paradigms

the cruelty of alienation

the onslaught of specialization

the brutality of voluntary generational suicide…

we are witnesses to the explosion of two runaway trains

that cannot coexist on the same track

1980

Tucson