a rant on an open mic

 

 

the open mike

is the most democratic channel...

well maybe except for hyde park sproul soapbox freedom.

anyone can sign up

to step up to bat,

step up to the mike

and into the sacred belljar

where art poetry is free to expose truth,

free to use whatever it takes,

whatever style it takes to expose truth...

that is, until your given time runs out

and hooks you around the neck and yanks you

from the belljar stage.

but in the belljar channel

you are in danger testing, crying, being so sucking bad that both

you and they curse your birth, sharing found ideas, listening to

the silence and the polite clapping greeting your bombs or to your

ravings of rage that hit too close to home, messing up the nice

polite parlor.

 

entering the open mike belljar is a leap into uncontrolled

possibilities, uncomfortable quest through good bad boring

embarrassing and sometimes magical.

 

nobody owns the belljar,

except when you are in the channel,

in the pipe behind the mike,

holding the modern talking stick

until it is time to pass it on to the next.

but the talking stick is everyone's,

for anyone with something to express.

if one is banned, censored, from holding the talking stick

just to punish, just to protect a neat fragile nice order,

we all are banished from the sacred talking stick which becomes

just a cock that we rub.

 

i get worried if my words and images fit through veins clogged

with fatty taboos of polite appropriate of comfortability.

 

i get worried...is the art that small that it fits through that

pinhole of a hole...so small that nudes on the walls, words on

telephone poles, any shift in the social power structure threatens

the very reality fabric.

 

i'm too proud to admit the art poetry is that small.

so my art becomes a roto-rooting balloon covered in razors

tipped in draino acid,

pushing pressuring uncomfortable unsocial grinding against the

grain until the killer fatty clots of taboos burst out the other end

and go down the drain like trouble.

 

i don't really go after the hitlers, the mccarthys, the helms,

or their brown shirts.

 

they are just limp-dicked power-junkies with swiss-cheese egos,

each hole filled with inferiority. they are just moons with no

power light of themselves, just reflecting fear.

 

no, i go after the nice people who never asked where the trains

were going, boxcars filled with people. didn't have to. only

suspected, only heard rumors...after all, the general is a friend.

never said, excuse me, i am a jew too, a jap too, a gay too, i've negro

blood running in my body, aids too. i'm a commie who took home

movies of our nude kids. so better put me on that train too. better

put us all on that train. there ain't no train big enough!

 

i go after the nice people who keep going to work after seeing

their friends missing, after hearing rumors of blacklist and

blackball. must write something about that subject to THE TIMES.

he used to be such a pleasant fellow...but now he is a whining

paranoid...not a sort to have to tea. he is like a wet messy fart.

not in my backyard!

 

yes, i go after nice people. but my time in the belljar is about over.

so i'll leave you with this. what is happening in your backyard is

what really matters. so be sure to weed!

 

© 1995 Frank Moore

 

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