by ellvee_tattooer ift.tt/21FhYtQ

Now reviewed in the San Francisco Chronicle ("Superb Landscapes Full of Horrible Glory")

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Brought back from Italy: Jack Hirschman, The Arcanes (Multimedia Edizioni, 2006), a thousand-page sequence of poems begun in the 1970s. Here's "The Bob Kaufman Arcane," text courtesy a Greek web page devoted to Kaufman:

THE BOB KAUFMAN ARCANE

Root of black, root of jew,

in a Red world, you

whose skull had been a drumskin

for nightsticks of Pig and billyclubs of Goon

playing their coldwar number – Dirty Commie! –

on your temples…

root of southern protest

and the northern cry, you

whose ears they stuffed

with sirens (and not the watery kind),

whose brains they tried backwashing

to antebellum times or else

strung them up in some Bellevue

of shockwire

because you refused not singing

the soviet motherland,

Sinferopol and collective farms,

because when Robeson was stoned

and Yankee gloated,

when the Rosenbergs were fried

and Yankee applauded

you were organizing miners in the south

for Revolution

and that’s why Yankee knocked in

the backdoor of your knees

and flung you to the ground

like a bale of nigger cotton

and there was no defense, then,

the Party was running scared

and Negro was still spreading molasses

and eating its own hand;

so Yankee beat you and beat you again

and “sometimes the blows are so heavy –

“I don’t know!” as Vallejo’s black

messenger cried,

and that is the truth of Beat,

the pain fascist kicks sent through your ribs,

the pain of the armtwists by finks

of the Fifth Amendment,

and how you rose up suffering in beauty,

finished being a kigmy,

with a flaming black poetry

“hard as jazz, glowing”

from the tragic incandescence

of the assassinations of the Nation’s face,

and fused

its ravenous poverties

its contradictions of streetcorner shivers of tokay

its dialectics of crystal and bombs

its shags and Panthers

its beat elite meat’n’ eaten feet-in-the-mouth disease

its splashdown extortions and briberies

its steadystate idiot tapes

with your ferocious gentility,

your patchwork of poems ever quilting our warbitten ears,

your frinks mumbles and open wounds of vibrations of cathodes and Bemsha’s tune,

your wine-scrounges and orgasms of snot ever revulsing the boujies,

your low profile straight-from-the-hip Fives, the outpetaling

victory gesture of your palms,

those eyes where your smile always rose to,

your rubberbanded upjumping exclamations and ricochetting ungebung red-ons,

your numerical love for 86

(O black Sequoyah on these Cherokee streets of Parker

and the trail of tears of Eileen,

O push that came to the shove of the love for Lynne!)

your tokes of shmoogadoo leaning against a wall of Chinatown alley,

your head bobbing up and down reading and creating a secret bop

kabbala at the same time,

your Tenderloin wanders tumbles and coma,

your lonely figure at a hotel window

staring down at North Beach,

which always looked up to you

like the best cup of coffee in America

looking up to its most precious mouth

O streetheart

there’s a tan point and a brown study

in the life of wine and noise

where the entire albatross

’round the neck of a man falls away

and he stands eternally young and clear –

O streetheart

those songs we sang together

are rising from your poems

the way you rose from the gutter

with a righteous brilliant literacy

filling the voting fingers of the South now

with blackworker hegemony,

lifting threshfolds of wheat onto

the shoulders of young Haiti,

and feeding the drying mouth

of this gentrified-dying village

freshwater from the hydrant

you’ve carried under your arm through hell

playing it like a bongo

thundering out an izobongo

for all to rise to the rhythm

of sound’s free soul

and be notes

of the never-ending

rainbow to the Internationale.

by bluedragontattoobrighton #brighton

This creek is west of Georgetown, South Carolina. The land in this part of the state produced some of the best rice in the country. Negro hands did most of the work on Carolina rice plantations. They were indispensable in handling the crop which was one of the state's most valuable productions. For two hundred years there were prolific rice fields all along these lowland reaches of South Carolina. This particular flat boat is loaded with rice straw which made valuable fodder and bedding and was used for paper stock.

(Note: An inexpensive viewer can turn the side-by-side images on the computer screen into a 3-D image. The viewer is available for $4.95 from the following source:

civilwarin3d.com/html/viewers.html )

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