POETRY PAGE ONE
COLUMN SIXTY-NINE, MARCH 1, 2002
(Copyright © 2002 The Blacklisted Journalist)
(Photo by Myles Aronowitz)
(Copyright © 1997 Myles Aronowitz)
[This poem originally appeared in THE FIRST OF THE MONTH, a newspaper of the Radical Imagination http:www.firstofthemonth.org.]
THE ACADEMIC COWARDS OF REACTION
(Copyright © 2001 Amiri Baraka)
cross the jism & the jasm. They do not
to be fount out
they sigh and lie and criminalize silence
the dead pants of shaking in their boots. They
afraid of the just gone and don't want to
cause they didn't know what to do
everybody was so animated and fly.
thought, after all, you can understand
under the piano, looking for a Victrola
a Defeatrola, you see, that-there was too fast
thing happening, and the Chinee screaming
Is The Main Trend". And that
the jungle bunnies with no papers
motley whites who went along with the
stuff. And we know, the devil who
of my heart, and I, we nose grows. We
say, ok, I don't know how to be angry, but I can be
as a hammock in the good room. You
got a degree in degreeing and a Ph.D in Ph.Ding.
can fake anything but emotion and you don't need that
collitch,lesser do we need it at university, we is very white
that's still permissible after all, and we can stall instead of
question with polyvapid bullwinks, like we sd "Post-Modern", when we
the righteousness of Road Warrior and the Dead Cities
which we cd pontificate that what is ugly is not and what is icy is hot.
sd "Post-Modern Post-Modern" and the big guy in the sky pent house
us and signaled with a shiny coin of dismal that we were up to the task
lying to hide the flaccid timidity of our mendacity.
We cd not be Cats
Dudes, or Hippies. We like jazz,
but only lying down. We are the
poetry, but without the spangles. We
make a verse that dare not jangle or
with the grim questions that crush the many fools who want to be unleashed
hold our peace except to say, "Post-Modern", which if you understand
The "Language", stripped of any diseased opinion, which is bourgeois
and stories and decision and snappy politics like the Colored Stalin's
threaten to define us as ignorant as Crazy Eddie, the colleague
enough to give interviews to restaurant owners on how they waxed
fadder and socked it to dey mudder, and put a trope in each dey eyes
they could describe a world no one understood, but we could analyze as
with decency. We sd then,
"Language" (but smelled funny) to hook it
the wordy birds of no it has nothing to do with the world, there is no world
behind the dead patches where my self used to crawl.
don't you understand? As if you
could be a Note Musician and away with
pests like what it mean or what it say or who it help.
We are text ridders and
conceivers, we are more Dizzy than Gates and we ain't Lionel Hampton.
for us, as long riders on the purple sage of the campus, where buxom
twist and shout and Little Richard will one day be chair of there.
by saying merely "Language", and halting the shit right there, we
the chairman of our department stare off into his last check what the heck
didn't understand Allen Tate, either at first, nor why Faulkner was not just
sticky racial mole, hanging on the unborn George Wallace Pen-is this interesting
or not? Without having to be weighted down by a goddamn narrative and
the notion that what is writ has a writer, again we washed away the bourgeoisie
ourselves hiding inside the dumbness of our square misunderstandings.
would be racists but that's been 'done. We hate Ginsberg and those guys because
said impossible things. You see we
are textual, Bush 2 and the group. By
saying something we could creep neatly away from commitment or tiptoe
stunning graceaway from cranky values like Keats' mistake of Truth for
roof over your head and Beauty which as everyone knows is what the Pirates
for stealing the election. Money
helps if you got some. It's one
reason I don't
go for Negroes, they don't have no money. And
don't think our sprint away
what is this after all, just more bullshit?
Means we're type cast. Though we,
the idea of caste is jealously profound. Like
Seven Types of Amos and Andy.
sense of humor spends as well as money. But
Niggers, of course, being oral
less than graduates refuse to think we funny, even if they say we funny, they
to be insulting, and we are, after all, the neatest things to emerge since
Fugitive Kind. We were right to
kill Robert Redford. Who is
anyhow, but the nasty (I realize this is not politically correct, but that's
kind of humor that boils under our paper lips, we are not, like the colored guy
opportunists or big drags writing dull ignorant bullshit) “fag" who keeps
are ugly Down Home, We are the ghost of Halloween past and Halloween yet to
We are reclaiming with Post-Modern, the reactionary smells of De Manns
the Yale condoms of slightly shiny murderers.
Sieg Heil! We think all
to be obscure is, frankly, rude. And
poetry with some subject or objective
of anything, except our next raise, our tenure tete ta tetes, my recent
in the The Exasperated Hinie, lewd. And
there you see how droll and
need no one's sympathy we got tenure and a car.
We got trips sabbaticals to
so we can scribble like the Ish Kabibbles of the unreadable.
is a hip way of saying “The World Is Rotten & Must Stay Rotten To Be
Ignored, Though Funny If You Gettin Paid" and All you creeps even
of my colleagues are stupid for trying to change any things unless they
you a better office! Post-Modern is
what Rudolf Hess said to the people he
to meet Himmler. Don't you see how
Meaning. Without Narrative, Like a clever chum of mine, who pointed
cdn't be a Realist because there was no such thing as reality.
Woids, like ancient Neanderthal Boids. With
no one to claim it, or defame it. Or
it. Who cares for Brecht anyway, blood is not real except mine,
and I take my
very Un and very Dry.
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