Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Custer died for your sins
please mister Custer I don't
wanna go, I had a dream last
night, about the comin fight
Columbus didn't discover
what was already found
what was sacred ground
what Watts was sayin
about how we shape the shape
is it sour grapes or grapes
of wrath, Ginsberg shows us
the navel of the novel point
life is out of joint, we are
livin in a fragment of a fact
our view is a figment of a fig
can you dig it? can you see
what happened to the best minds
of our generation, can you what
Watts was seeing, that we really
don't know how to live, that if
we can't live now, then when
Custer did not know how, and how
this is the dawning of the age
of hair, to will to know to dare
Rimbaud told us, poetry is down
and dirty, Dylan was willin
but they paved paradise
and put up a watchtower
and a pink hotel
and these visions, of heaven
and hell, oh well, oh well
of snakes in the glass
all along wallstreet swinging
hot spot

make it all seem so cruel
truly, the hour is getting late

hard core

nice wordplay with names dropped like phone calls often, when the signal takes a powder.............and the wind begins to howl !

i just sample stuff
in the poem

never thought about sampling for poetry, but of course, it would apply just like music....a good way to mark time....

Love the poem's title...The way the "theocrats" & "repugnacins" are selling
our folks out in droves to the fatcat megacorporations makes me sick.
Whatever happened to universal health care, workers bargaining rights &
filling up the potholes in the roads?

But instead of vomiting, I am sending the GOP a message, win or not, at the
poll booth.Hurray for the Democratic Revolution in OUR country.
To hell, with "Arab Spring"... Let's declare victory and get out over there...

What about America!? Time to race to the poll booths in
our fire trucks, jump off, and vote for DEMOCRATIC PARTY candidates...
(Sorry for the rant, but that is how the poem speaks to me...)

ragged trundle on the strip
truck is caked in thick gobs of dust
under the towering gleam of billions
the desert turned into gold monoliths
way out rockers is cranked on the tape
but augustus pablo no match for the towers
you looked for the cool part of vegas one day
in el paso, at some some atomic tiki lounge
grass skirts 'n missile cones on the wall, and
the bearded bard read poems under the missiles
'bout hemingway's old pad, front door still bangin'
yellowed journal flappin' next to a box of cubans
jello biafra snarled viva las vegas from the cones
and you drank red rum from a steel shaft as
calexico played town with a morricone score
and a man with no name rode into badlands
to watch the mounds darken to morose old mills
pleasant language of decay, brisk metallic wind
crumbled slabs, rotted rail spurs, shot-out panes
dead line houses on a steel sky, wild dogs and filth
grunge simmers beneath the high swaying serpents
slim pickens rides a doomsday shaft waving a hat
and jello rages amid the missile cones
the kids and their rock 'n roll