I sit shiva in a parallel universe of the ugly/beautiful.
Millions of dead relatives start weeping. The living sob.
Poets and musicians gather in her name, in the name of her muse.
Meditators from many disciplines offer her encouragement.
While Jayne, the imagination you imagined
Protects us from the mercenaries of illusion.
Keep us from getting stuck on the global production line.
Break our engagement to the pawnshop of scars.
Prepare us for the pregnant burning skeletons
Giving birth all around us.
Love, may her story be ground out and mixed in a bottle of Cobra.
Keep her words from the rundown sphincter of electric chairs
That jolts us from these jackal jail yards
To the inferior rejected dominated oppressed excrescent road
Of bullet-pierced ghetto ghosts mowing down the ruling class,
Cold blooded lynch mobs, hideous bigots.
Savage the silence with corpses
Jamming & reading with street drummers
On the Plumb Line of the Soul
Where the angels, with their laxatives of white shit white fear,
Keep us safe from ecodevastation, biological weapons, new diseases.
Hold us up in the blue mule true nerve fusion.
5 January 2013
Spoken word version from Commune, copyright © 2013 by Jim Cohn.