Sunday, March 15, 2009

May Day (In hope of Spring)

Gracias, muchachos.

Another vintage verse vrooms from the vault.

May Day (by Joe Nolan)

The White Hand
marks the countenance
of the mind soldier.
Digital rifle shoulders grim determination.
mark the midnight’s jaundiced
Propagandography in the coding of the symbol.
The bug chaser
licks a leg razor
and swallows his sallow tail
like a sick Pisces.
under bomb raid
and the copkillers huddle in
some brave shadow where
everyboy is a King.
We deny The Law its rule and its gallows.
We kill our own martyrs and mark the night
like satyrs
at the limits of our blue desiring.
There are no hirelings among us comrade.
No merchants among pirates.
No cynics among lovers.
No cataract occludes our Solar
Vision of a Vice
that is risen -
Red Angel -
at an angle to the midnight,
that presupposes its corrosive intent.
Hey Mooneyed Ghetto Child
bleeds low-rent television static
from a wound in his side.
No pride among the desperate.
The vestments of poverty and shame learn
a new name from an old one.
a new flame from an old sun
that no longer dawns
on the chrome junkyard heart of
fallen-sweet autumn apples drinking
seventh story water
in this A.M. (Year of the Ram).
I quest a grail-full
of Love of Chaos.
My Beauty’s breast ridden
with Anarchy ribbons
in the wine-soaked twilight of May Day.
A rose blooms in my palm and
bleeds a bullet
between my teeth.

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Joe Nolan

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