on the open mic

[revolutionrabbit]

what the enlightened beings
once handed down to us
is now only what a poet can find
in the trash cans
of wisdom to light
unholy fires with
camped
at the armed museum
in the night of being,

who are the poets now,
as a collider smashes black holes
into suns

waits at the gates of Eden
knee deep in star rivers
the flood of black
liquid meaning
in a meaning-
less kingdom of entertainment,
destruction of values, dead ends

Rimbaud, looked long at the book
of the future, of seasons in hell
the evening before he entered
the splendid cities

before he entered forever
the illuminations
the torrent of splendid cities
he took deep drags on his long
stemmed clay pipe of infernos


the gods have become ancient texts
languishing in the great vaults
the cities of clocks ticking like bombs
as it sweeps us away like bits

confetti convulsive hands flowing
to the keys of modernity, absolutely
and bang out long rambling poems
that stumble like junkie clowns

baffoonery of empty of perverse
the disconsolate sentences resemble
something like transcendence

we entered the local readings at night,
to blast out bird shit words of rage
at the sea of faces in the cafes


& blistering jagged jibber
jam and jelly, belly and gut
all at the shut barricades, the rut
of our minds, testing the razor's edge
looking for that arcane anarchy

makes it through the memory smoke
and struck silence before the crazy words
themselves made themselves known,
breaking through a taboo,

of total obliviousness, beyond
the obvious and into the obscure
and completely off the freaking wall
we spent our unconscious dime
on the open mic

[dadio]

Deep probing poem.

[stilltrucking]

Time of the Assassins a study of Rimbaud by Henry Miller

"...The saints knew it, but modern man laughs at it. Hell is whatever, wherever one thinks it to be. If you believe you are in Hell, you are. And life for the modern man has become an eternal Hell for the simple reason he has lost all hope of attaining Paradise. He does not even believe in a Paradise of his own creation."

"

[saw]

yes, but we can't go back, relive another era sadly....it's all digital graphic bling now, baby....few get juiced on poetry......though in my area there are many opportunities to hear poets.......many that I hear have not grasped the importance of volume and delivery......I hear so many quiet monotones that put me to sleep....the words might be great, but I can't get beyond the lackluster presentation.....for us that believe in the power of metaphor, we must keep on churning in the hope there will be a poetry revolution......

[joel]

many that I hear have not grasped the importance of volume and delivery......I hear so many quiet monotones that put me to sleep....the words might be great, but I can't get beyond the lackluster presentation.....for us that believe in the power of metaphor, we must keep on churning in the hope there will be a poetry revolution......

It's my whole faith: a poetry revolution. ...shepherd among a flock that openly worships the Word...but so afraid of the holiness of poetic license.... As for myself, why do I always sound so angry...not monotone and lackluster, but overly urgent and overly angry? Why do gentle words come out so harshly? Where is patience in poetry, for poetry?

Poetry is the language no one can fail; oughtn't there be more noticeable grace in that?

[revolutionrabbit]

when i was reading on open mics it was a different time
for me and my poet friends who were the others, not
the university poets, we were experimenting with
stuff that was more born of the street, even though
we read a lot of stuff from the university.My mentor
was into Beat writing and Surrealism.It was kinda wild
at the readings, all this before rap and hip hop, we were
thinking more like Dada or Be bop.One of the local poets
taught a class up at the university, his name was William Everson
he had a different style, his mentor was Robertson Jeffers, actually
Bill had been called brother Antoninus, I remember the first time i heard
Bill read, it was at the jr collage and Robert Bly was reading also.
Something about William Everson's presence, his voice and the
way he read his poetry, was very moving and intense, he was more
a nature poet, a regionalist he called it, I remember sitting in on
his classes, and he talked about different kinds of poets, and said
he was not like Poe, he made a point to show how his style differed
from that of Poe.It felt good that Bill was there in those days, to hear
him read, it was reassuring and grounding.Meanwhile my poet life was
going through the changes. When you think about a poet like Robertson
Jeffers, who died in 62...

The Beautiful Captive

It is curious I cannot feel it yet.
To pile up weapons on both sides of a ditch makes war
certain as sunrise
Yet I can’t feel it’s approach.
There have been two, there will be a third, to be fought
with what weapons? These that we test and stock-
pile.
And every test makes the earth
At such and such a place uninhabitable. We must not
test them too much, they are too deadly,
We store them. If ours and theirs
Went off at once they’d probably infect the elements and
blight the whole earth. We have general death on
our hands,
But wait ten years of peace we’ll have more.
Do you think we’ll not use them? When a great nation is
in trouble-when a great nation is in danger of be-
ing conquered
It will use the whole arsenal.
So-be prepared to die. Those whom the blasts miss, the
air and water will poison them. Those who survive,
Their children will be dying monsters.
I have thought for a long time that we are too many-
three thousand million is it?-this will adjust us.
I have pitied the beautiful earth
Ridden by such as master as the human race. Now, if we
die like dinosaurs, the beautiful
Planet will be happier.
She is not domesticated, she weeps in her service, the
lovely forehead bowed down to the sleek knees-
Or is she laughing? Good luck to her.
But this fantastic third world war and self-destruction:
curious I cannot feel them yet. The idea is logical
But not intuitive: distrust it.
However-if not thus-God will find other means. The
troublesome race of man, Oh beautiful planet, is
not mortal

well, it's not hip-hop, but it oddly reminds me of Bukowski
not the style, but poet is seeing the reality on this planet,
so all styles meet somewhere.Henry Miller's take on Rimbaud
is highly recommended to any young or old poet.Also if you want
to read a poet novel about the late 60's and the real world we
are born into, like Bukowski says, "born into this" my novel
Gone Hallucinogen Freeway is a slice of surreal life.

[SadLuckDame]

Your novel took me there,
it was an excellent piece of life and living, rabbit.

[saw]

thanx for posting the Jeffers poem rabbit, as powerful an anti-war poem as I have ever read.....the truth is undeniable, and worth expressing.....must have been a great place to come of age ( san francisco).....ground zero for so many cultural inceptions........

[revolutionrabbit]

thankyou, SadLuckDame and others, writting the novel was a difficult journey back into the past, in some ways, it's hard to explain what it is like to relive/remember things that happened when you were a teenager, the late 60's were a very unique period , Dylan's Don't Look Back comes to mind, and Grace Slick who said, "if you remember the sixties , you weren't there" also comes to mind, but also writing about the psychedelics and also just the other drugs that were around, I felt that it was important to try to put it all into some kind of perspective, not to mention, the stuff you have to do and learn just to self publish, the cost ect. As far as San Fransisco goes, i was living in Santa Cruz, 75 miles south of S.F. in the beginning of the 70's, and also i did live in S.F. in the 70's for a few months, and then in around 80', in Berkeley, and then again in S.F. now i'm in so cal in the high desert, below L.A. and again as far as the novel goes, i have to say that i see it as one big poem, it was influenced by Burroughs because of the reality of drugs on all levels, and by the other "Beat" writers, but even more so by surrealism, and i have to add magic realism as an influence.I just tossed the writing together as best as i could, i edited it myself as far as the writing, i knew that it was a bit hap-hazard but i wanted it to be raw and experimental, as that is the best a poet like myself can do, i was not trained to write in a University.