Litkicks Message Board Archive


Posted to Action Poetry


I have just realized that the stakes are myself.
~Diane DiPrima
Revolutionary Letters

And baby, yr not as important as you thought.
I dnt wear yr shirts
dnt read yr books
my lips dnt touch
yr mouth no more.
Yr hands leave me dry.

I’m a poet.
Thought and feeling, I breathe in
got no time to play.
I cnt smile until
the Muse allows.
I evoke the long dead, still living
poet ghosts,
old hands, time
weathered skin.
Those who died of tuberculosis,
East to West and back again, gang of children at yr feet,
drunk and bitter, dried up desolation soul,
long bearded and bespeckled,
all the minor ones, the mad ones, the ones eaten up by the curse of motherhood and breasts stuffy offices and well meaning freudians.

Baby, I aint got no time
for yr games,
I dnt got no time to play.
This spider web truce
I hold with
the mother of us all
is fragile. This balance
cannot be

The first time we touched,
I threw all my old lovers away.
I cannot jump between legs,
I am not acrobatic,
I do not twist & pull
my muscles do not
stretch, I am not as pliable
as the other

I cnt tell you there are lips
I would rather kiss
there are beds I’d like to share
there are other seas
I shld have swam in.
There are words I would
have liked to hear.
You did not offer,
and baby, I did not ask.
I play it cool with you.

Old poet men
poet mothers
baby shit on their clothes
milk staining their nipples
men who hate them
men who love them
men who are afraid
and hide behind their pot bellied gods.

Cld it be different
if I cld show you these words?
Cld it be different
if you understood?

There are secrets in here
that I will never tell you-
secrets you would know
if there was love.

And maybe, this is really
a poem for Diane,
for the “mother of us all”
proxy saint.
Her words always rang
truer than yrs
and every time I turned my
back on you,
I turned to her.

Diane, Brooklyn born beat
revolutionary blood in veins,
you are the pointing finger,
the pillar of fire
who shows the bitter ends
to him, tells him
of love and pain
of what he does and what he

This sisterhood, secret society
of breasts and plucked hairs,
powdered noses, that you think you know
is empty.
I am a man underneath my yellow skirt
when you are involved.
This solidarity, this “we are one”
bullshit motto
never really existed. There is
no sisterhood, no trust,
and I’ll stick the knife in anyone’s back
before I’ll give him up.

At night, I think of Diane
of the punches she did pull
of the games she did not play.

Flowers will not fix this
neither would white papered
cellophaned candy hearts.
You would not bring them,
but if you did baby
I would not accept.

So zip up yr pants
unlock the door
and walk away.
You’ve got another bed to
be in.
I’ve got yr scent to wash away.

Don't hang yr deadbell on me boy
I'm not gonna carry yr weight too
in this strange cosmos.

I'll suck you dry this time.
Yr hair will split,
yr face burn red
yr hands will shake like mine.

Somewhere in the distance
a man sighs,
the wind plays slowly on unsuspecting grass*

And still, we walk blindly
lust and smoke in our eyes.

*I don't know how to use html, but I have those three lines in italics.
Also, there is a certain form to the poem that is lost here...if you want to see it in the form that I want it to be shown in, go to Feedback is much appreciated. Thanks.