[a few from the old first notebook]

"Carlo"

A.
A man holds all his hope in a bottle
in his hand, standing in the middle
of a street, in the middle of a battle.
In the middle of his chest brews
an ending, beginning with the bottle.

Z.
A man lies in the street, all his hope unfolding
around his head in a crimson halo... dreams drunk
from a hole by asphalt... a pistol-round shell-casing
lies yards away, satisfied with its pop, it's punch
... spit and spent and aspirations still
spilling from the man's face. Face down or face up,
face it, this face-off fakes out fists unthrown.
This is not the final argument. Not all have flown
from this fight. Some still stay. Some still stand,
and all will still scream until this dream finds
something other to sip... something sweeter
than sanguine and Molotov cocktails... some water
perhaps... some blood that stays blue..
Carlo, our comrade... we have still not forgotten.

...

"The Eyes of Czolgosz"

And the cries come from the observation bleachers, "Kill this Anarchist!"
Leon, they may ask why you didn't save a bullet for yourself
but that question never reflected upon itself
in your eyes.
Leon, they may say you murdered an innocent, benevolent,
heaven-sent President
but that statement never had to pay rent while bent
on the knee of a tyrant.
Leon, now your hope's spent and the barrel's gone cold
your throat, dry.
Friends call you "traitor"
Comrades come to your cell to grin closed teeth
like prison bars
and blink tearless eyes like electric chair farewells.
Leon, I feel your gunshot filling my lungs
with every chamber-loading breath.
My heart revolves, my tongue clicks.
Leon, I never doubted you.
Emma and Max and I never doubted you.
Let McKinley be only the beginning
let our cries reload and fire again
and again and again and again and again
and again and again and again and again
and AGAIN!
Let them all fall as we exhale.
Leon, we knew your name was not Nieman.
Leon, your pulse brought us Sacco
and Vanzetti and Durruti and Spain and Paris
and Seattle and Carlo and petrol bombs
and bricks leaving hands
like invocations leaving mouths
bodies leaving feet
feet leaving ground
blood leaving holes punched by
bullets leaving pistols.
Leon, your time is our time
and our time is all time
and all time is now.
Right. Fucking. Now.
Revenge for Valliant, Leon!
Long Live Anarchy, Leon!
Attentat, Leon! Attentat!
Czolgosz! Open Your Eyes!

...

"I Am Talking About Fucking Up Our Sundays"

We turn drums & rotors
tear the fucking tag off this mattress
erase the FBI from this video.

We trouble this square.
Instead of asking,
"Why can't I see pictures in these clouds?"
Like smoke between teeth
fingers between ribs.

We rake the flats of our knife blades
across the bars, like smoke between teeth.
The escape
is in the cafeteria riot.
It is inevitable.
We trouble this square.
We turn drums & rotors.

Because
We drove like a barricade
to protect the schoolbus.
And then another one came.
And we had to get aggressive.

...

"I see you..."

I see you. You see me.
And someone else may see us.
Else may be a wall that
we may, or may not,
bounce a ball off.

...
okay. so, i was looking through my very first notebook for something to use for my next editing experiment post. i figured it would offer the greatest challenge, as it is quite painful for me to look at the stuff i wrote during that period. really. most of it ranges from cringe-inducing to atrociously inexcusable. it is bad writing.

it is crawling at its lowest and most awkward.

however, while trudging around in that poorly-lit sewer, i found a few gems that i'm actually a little proud of, or at least find kinda interesting. "Carlo" is a piece i wrote about Carlo Giuliani, an Italian anarchist who was killed by riot police during the G8 protest on January 19, 2001. it is one of VERY few political poems in that notebook that doesn't obnoxiously or desperately rhyme, and of those, i think it's one of the two most sincere. tied for that honor is "The Eyes of Czolgosz," about McKinley assassin Leon Czolgosz. i had just read Emma Goldman's autobiography, and was very moved by her brief, haunted relationship with that dude. as you can probably tell, i considered myself an anarchist at that time and was very into the militant aspect of the movement and its colorful, often violent history. i think i was maybe more just fascinated with the imagery, dynamism and drama of it all, and i had a strong affinity for tragic figures. i'm still very much a socially liberal dude who thinks the vague tenets of anarchism are a pretty awesome notion, but i understand the limitations and have long since denounced the idea of holding onto isms and specific scopes of belief. and i shouldn't have to offer this disclaimer, but i will, for the cheap seats: NO, i do not believe that political assassination is a viable or practical means of protest in this age of complexity.

Fun Fact: for anyone who may be familiar with the poet Jose Araguz, "The Eyes of Czolgosz" was his favorite of my work while we were in college, even after i started writing better.

those last two are just little things i found in my digging that i think are WAY better than about 99.9% of the actual completed "poems" that beat up, purple Mead composition book holds. a prize to anyone who can tell me where i got the title for that first one. the second is about a weird, term-free relationship i found myself in, long before i realized that "term-free" isn't so much a reality as an excuse.
-andy