JAYNE CORTEZ
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.