SPOTLIGHT: Lizzy Red Bird: and other unclaimed poems of resistance by Tom Pescatore

Why the Agents never called

because you had frightened them
with suicide letters, fingers on the button,
on the bomb, strange musing cat-like noises
in the alleyways of thought between the lines,
weighted down by hello how are you good, good,
pressure, those fairy tale facilities, buried like
corded veins in the soft prosaic grounds,
preconditioned bits of regurgitated information
twisting like useless narrative going back over,
afterwards, in-between, telling the same old
same old tv serial scene, not knowing how to
lie, how to hide your sadness, deafness,
frown, because you cried for what was lost
and gave innocently, naively of yourself.

lolCat Manifesto
for Our Comrade Martin &
to the corpse of the Divine Lorraine

you found broken houses
in the snow
they ran by city streets
lit by traffic light

from behind long red letters
you looked down and cried
into their engine bred domain

there was no place for you
under their gray clouds

you took the most difficult road
and it left you a bloody mess
smeared on boxcars headed east

you never penned the content
to this masterpiece
nor buried its title under the attic
in which you slept

they built its foundation
on the dreams by which you
were entombed

you left before the crumbling stair
could become overpriced
condominium paradise

Lizzie Red Bird
For Lizzie, Annie & all the victims of American Genocide

On this date
Friday December 12, 1919
Lizzie Red Bird froze to death
in the darkening winter night,
on the South Dakota plain
a prisoner of the Rosebud Reservation in
the Imperial United States,
she ran away from boarding school
with Annie Coarse Voice,
who lost her feet to the cold
& amputation frost bite survivor
long enough to face the 4-H,
the tea party set, cut your hair,
lift up your skirt,
take your seat obedience,

Poor Lizzie, you only wanted
to escape that shapeless shoe-less fantasy,
office of interior design;

the snow still falls from Canada up north
I hear, lines are thickly drawn;

Were you buried, my Lizzie,
with the bars facing up or down?

it’s important to know who started it

the drone bombs all went to church together,
they dropped righteous bombs on weekdays,

there were memes dedicated to their unbelief,
these were meant to satisfy the ego of the dispossessed,

did you know this sniveling fact,
this slattern relief?

where we didn’t start the war,
we burned the bodies of our enemies,

for words and rationale
or for whatever and god
the same,

each drone earns a purple heart,
it is what they call a loaded bomb,
placed gently in the gut by caring hands
and released by remote alarm.

Parallel Births

I saw John Titor on the street the other day,
he was talking in rhymes about nineteen-seventy five,
walking a circle around the block I stopped dead in front of apple macintosh.

Under my glasses there are rainbows when light hits just right
and yesterday the stairway wound the other way.

I’m starting to lose that itch of regret.
At noon it’ll be 23 hours since lunch but I’ll decide to eat again.

What could all the milling people by my bedside want?
there’s enough for the spelling of every hand and a reminder left over.

Once florida sinks into sea, the joel prophesy will be negated.
What words will be followed then? How will they be repeated?

I saw kelvin on the street the other day.
He is both human and not, a temperature talking in rhythm.
Passing through I dropped a quarter upon him and he squealed that time was fading.


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