46 America poems

O this political air so heavy with the bells and motors of a slow night, and no place to rest but rain to walk—How it rings the Washington streets! The umbrella’d congressmen; the rapping tires of big black cars, the shoulders of lobbyists caught under canopies and in doorways, and it rains, it will not let up, and meanwhile lame futurists weep into Spengler’s prophecy, will the world be over before the races blend color? All color must be one or let the world be done— There’ll be a chance, we’ll all be orange! I don’t want to be orange! Nothing about God’s color to complain; and there is a beauty in yellow, the old Lama in his robe the color of Cathay; in black a strong & vital beauty, Thelonious Monk in his robe of Norman charcoal— And if Western Civilization comes to an end (though I doubt it, for the prophet has not executed his prophecy) surely the Eastern child will sit by a window, and wonder the old statues, the ornamented doors; the decorated banquet of the West— Inflamed by futurists I too weep in rain at night at the midnight of Western Civilization; Dante’s step into Hell will never be forgotten by Hell; the Gods’ adoption of Homer will never be forgotten by the Gods; the books of France are on God’s bookshelf; no civil war will take place on the fields of God; and I don’t doubt the egg of the East its glory— Yet it rains and the motors go and continued when I slept by that wall in Washington which separated the motors in the death-parlor where Joe McCarthy lay, lean and stilled, ten blocks from the Capitol— I could never understand Uncle Sam his red & white striped pants his funny whiskers his starry hat: how surreal Yankee Doodle Dandy, goof! American history has a way of making you feel George Washington is still around, that is when I think of Washington I do not think of Death— Of all Presidents I have been under Hoover is the most unreal and FDR is the most President-looking and Truman the most Jewish-looking and Eisenhower the miscast of Time into Space— Hoover is another America, Mr. 1930 and what must he be thinking now? FDR was my youth, and how strange to still see his wife around. Truman is still in Presidential time. I saw Eisenhower helicopter over Athens and he looked at the Acropolis like only Zeus could. OF THE PEOPLE is fortunate and select. FOR THE PEOPLE has never happened in America or elsewhere. BY THE PEOPLE is the sadness of America. I am not politic. I am not patriotic. I am nationalistic! I boast well the beauty of America to all the people in Europe. In me they do not see their vision of America. O whenever I pass an American Embassy I don’t know what to feel! Sometimes I want to rush in and scream: “I’m American!” but instead go a few paces down to the American Bar get drunk and cry: “I’m no American!” The men of politics I love are but youth’s fantasy: The fine profile of Washington on coins stamps & tobacco wraps The handsomeness and death-in-the-snow of Hamilton. The eyeglasses shoe-buckles kites & keys of Ben Franklin. The sweet melancholy of Lincoln. The way I see Christ, as something romantic & unreal, is the way I see them. An American is unique among peoples. He looks and acts like a boyman. He never looks cruel in uniform. He is rednecked portly rich and jolly. White-haired serious Harvard, kind and wry. A convention man a family man a rotary man & practical joker. He is moonfaced cunning well-meaning & righteously mean. He is Madison Avenue, handsome, in-the-know, and superstitious. He is odd, happy, quicker than light, shameless, and heroic Great yawn of youth! The young don’t seem interested in politics anymore. Politics has lost its romance! The “bloody kitchen” has drowned! And all that is left are those granite façades of Pentagon, Justice, and Department— Politicians do not know youth! They depend on the old and the old depend on them and lo! this has given youth a chance to think of heaven in their independence. No need to give them liberty or freedom where they’re at— When Stevenson in 1956 came to San Francisco he campaigned in what he thought was an Italian section! He spoke of Italy and Joe DiMaggio and spaghetti, but all who were there, all for him, were young beatniks! and when his car drove off Ginsberg & I ran up to him and yelled: “When are you going to free the poets from their attics!” Great yawn of youth! Mad beautiful oldyoung America has no candidate the craziest wildest greatest country of them all! and not one candidate— Nixon arrives ever so temporal, self-made, frontways sideways and backways, could he be America’s against? Detour to vehicle? Mast to wind? Shore to sea? Death to life? The last President?

we gave birth to a new generation, AmeRícan, broader than lost gold never touched, hidden inside the puerto rican mountains. we gave birth to a new generation AmeRícan, it includes everything imaginable you-name-it-we-got-it society. we gave birth to a new generation, AmeRícan salutes all folklores, european, indian, black, spanish and anything else compatible: AmeRícan,       singing to composer pedro flores' palm trees up high in the universal sky! AmeRícan,       sweet soft spanish danzas gypsies moving lyrics la española cascabelling presence always singing at our side! AmeRícan,       beating jíbaro modern troubadours crying guitars romantic continental bolero love songs! AmeRícan,       across forth and across back back across and forth back forth across and back and forth our trips are walking bridges! it all dissolved into itself, an attempt was truly made, the attempt was truly absorbed, digested, we spit out the poison, we spit out in malice, we stand, affirmative in action, to reproduce a broader answer to the marginality that gobbled us up abruptly! AmeRícan,       walking plena-rhythms in new york, strutting beautifully alert, alive many turning eyes wondering, admiring! AmeRícan,       defining myself my own way any way many many ways Am e Rícan, with the big R and the accent on the í! AmeRícan,       like the soul gliding talk of gospel boogie music! AmeRícan,       speaking new words in spanglish tenements, fast tongue moving street corner "que corta" talk being invented at the insistence of a smile! AmeRícan,       abounding inside so many ethnic english people, and out of humanity, we blend and mix all that is good! AmeRícan,       integrating in new york and defining our own destino, our own way of life, AmeRícan,       defining the new america, humane america, admired america, loved america, harmonious america, the world in peace, our energies collectively invested to find other civili- zations, to touch God, further and further, to dwell in the spirit of divinity! AmeRícan,       yes, for now, for i love this, my second land, and i dream to take the accent from the altercation, and be proud to call myself american, in the u.s. sense of the word, AmeRícan, America!

In 1963 the morning probably seemed harmless enough to sign on the dotted line as the insurance man talked to my parents for over an hour around a coffee table about our future. This roof wasn't designed to withstand meteors he told my father, who back then had a brush haircut that made his ears stick out, his moods still full of passion, still willing to listen, my mother with her beehive hairdo, smiling back at him, all three of them wanting so much to make the fine print of the world work. They laughed and smoked, and after they led the man politely to the door, my parents returned to the living room and danced in the afternoon light, the phonograph playing Frank Sinatra, the green Buick's payments up to date, five-hundred dollars safely in the bank— later that evening, his infallible common sense ready to protect us from a burst pipe or dry rot, my father waded up to his ankles in water, a V of sweat on the back of his shirt. Something loomed deeper than any basement on our block, larger than he was, a fear he could not admit was unsolvable with a monkey wrench or a handshake and a little money down.

I was born in Boston in 1949. I never wanted this fact to be known, in fact I’ve spent the better half of my adult life trying to sweep my early years under the carpet and have a life that was clearly just mine and independent of the historic fate of my family. Can you imagine what it was like to be one of them, to be built like them, to talk like them to have the benefits of being born into such a wealthy and powerful American family. I went to the best schools, had all kinds of tutors and trainers, traveled widely, met the famous, the controversial, and the not-so-admirable and I knew from a very early age that if there were ever any possibility of escaping the collective fate of this famous Boston family I would take that route and I have. I hopped on an Amtrak to New York in the early ‘70s and I guess you could say my hidden years began. I thought Well I’ll be a poet. What could be more foolish and obscure. I became a lesbian. Every woman in my family looks like a dyke but it’s really stepping off the flag when you become one. While holding this ignominious pose I have seen and I have learned and I am beginning to think there is no escaping history. A woman I am currently having an affair with said you know  you look like a Kennedy. I felt the blood rising in my cheeks. People have always laughed at my Boston accent confusing “large” for “lodge,” “party” for “potty.” But when this unsuspecting woman invoked for the first time my family name I knew the jig was up. Yes, I am, I am a Kennedy. My attempts to remain obscure have not served me well. Starting as a humble poet I quickly climbed to the top of my profession assuming a position of leadership and honor. It is right that a woman should call me out now. Yes, I am a Kennedy. And I await your orders. You are the New Americans. The homeless are wandering the streets of our nation’s greatest city. Homeless men with AIDS are among them. Is that right? That there are no homes for the homeless, that there is no free medical help for these men.And women. That they get the message —as they are dying— that this is not their home? And how are your teeth today? Can you afford to fix them? How high is your rent? If art is the highest and most honest form of communication of our times and the young artist is no longer able to move here to speak to her time…Yes, I could, but that was 15 years ago and remember—as I must I am a Kennedy. Shouldn’t we all be Kennedys? This nation’s greatest city is home of the business- man and home of the rich artist. People with beautiful teeth who are not on the streets. What shall we do about this dilemma? Listen, I have been educated. I have learned about Western Civilization. Do you know what the message of Western Civilization is? I am alone. Am I alone tonight? I don’t think so. Am I the only one with bleeding gums tonight. Am I the only homosexual in this room tonight. Am I the only one whose friends have died, are dying now. And my art can’t be supported until it is gigantic, bigger than everyone else’s, confirming the audience’s feeling that they are alone. That they alone are good, deserved to buy the tickets to see this Art. Are working, are healthy, should survive, and are normal. Are you normal tonight? Everyone here, are we all normal. It is not normal for me to be a Kennedy. But I am no longer ashamed, no longer alone. I am not alone tonight because we are all Kennedys. And I am your President.

of July bagpipes                                   big mad Hitchcockian crows siren        families striding       hurrying want a whole lot of love           sings the Joplin mimic            white birch         willow swings          pollen the cars in shade way way down gonna give you my love staying in the house the crows outside are winning car door       a muffled crowd gasp      wheels at the top of the sky and waits the night sky's visuals called          "Untamed Retribution"        and "Rain Fire" an objective       sincerity         the war does not space itself two teenage             girls at the screen           with the sun in their eyes all day   time takes all the time         bright canisters in the culverts         girls read hills of it day-long trash truck heads down our street what a big engine        emergency brake distance between        telephone pole and queen palm's trunk smoke loops      from back of the house to front leaves no signet              in cloud                 sidewalk's scalding path 'neath county's ripe corn table globe's eggshell for romance    the girls layer their tears back into their skin many dawns     the boys waving bends air crosses clouds in hot nets increasing          the local tenor's uprightness fumes exhume the crowd stands open-mouthed heads lifted you you you you you and you send me smoke falls through each head of hair to each ear's size and limit love sound-chamber'd moon's far off place

i've read the constitution more times than is normal for a person it's shorter than you think and older than anything else we share we argue about it which means it's still working