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41934Re: The Personal and the Political

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  • Trinidad Cruz
    Aug 11, 2007
      --- In existlist@yahoogroups.com, "Mary Jo" <maryjo.malo@...> wrote:

      "After that diagnosis this is the best you can offer?"
      Mary Jo

      In their terms, in their unwashed bandage of stinking fear, in
      corporate terms: the pledge is peace, the turn is terror, the prestige
      is control.

      For us, the ones who resist, there is no magic; only our own
      existential synthesis overwhelming an unforgiving set of stars that
      scream inside the dirty dreams of broken men: but there is Kowalski
      out on that highway alone refusing to stop, forcing an individual
      synthesis from himself, gone before gone, the vanishing point, the
      undefeated untouchable rebel, hell raising Jesus rockin' on the radio
      blasted in slipstreamed on a long black wave from freedomland like a
      fire on a door; and they seem to find you, but you're not there, just
      flaming junk and stopped traffic; and then you got the chain smokin'
      benny bumpin' dark horse jitters and jumps, and they film you and you
      die, gunned down for pushin' back, and you twitch your way through the
      epitaph, too wired to be buried - ever; `cause the dirt keeps falling
      off the hole that can't sit still `cause you're in it; and Oakland
      shakes and quivers every now and then, and bridges sometimes fall...
      Resistance is a family, without a government, without a civilization,
      without a religion. Its children are anywhere, yet at all times home.
      No one asks them who they are at home; because they could not be there
      unless they were family.

      This civilization today, this modern atrocity, this spitting out of
      tainted blood, this joke of greed, of untasting unrelenting
      cannibalism, is all the dead zone, the trek, the too long word, that
      cannot be written and rhymed in time to finish the poem. In Paris
      there are millions upon millions of human bones stored in caverns and
      mines under the city. To see them all at once is to understand
      unfinished poems, words too long to rhyme, pointless epitaphs, and
      nonsense shaped liked prayer - the syncretistic necromancy of
      control... I will go home, but I will never be sent there. Someone who
      knows how to get there would never send me anywhere.

      Resistance is now a family of unspoken promises, unpreached dreams,
      untaught truth, unconquered land, held together only by unforced
      goodness, and home only up along the river of being what it is; an
      elegant delicate ribbon of the judgment of goodness across, before,
      and beyond the brutal universe - that old set of stars and motion that
      is nothing more than a cannibalistic crypt out of which the dead have
      awakened to say better into the said that is said is life. So shake,
      so twitch, so rumble, rattle, roll, throw the motion of goodness into
      the abyss and percolate the bones. Tear through the necropolis like a
      blasting new night wind pulling the planets out of orbit, and the
      crooked stars from the cruel sky. Be good. That is home. This is a
      synthetic graveyard, a bad dream trying to finish itself. It does in
      your resistance. You walk away into yourself like a long lost love.

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