“PITY THE NATION”
(After Khalil Gibran)

Pity the nation whose people are sheep
And whose shepherds mislead them
Pity the nation whose leaders are liars
Whose sages are silenced
And whose bigots haunt the airwaves
Pity the nation that raises not its voice
Except to praise conquerers
And acclaim the bully as hero
And aims to rule the world
By force and by torture
Pity the nation that knows
No other language but its own
And no other culture but its own
Pity the nation whose breath is money
And sleeps the sleep of the too well fed
Pity the nation oh pity the people
who allow their rights to erode
and their freedoms to be washed away
My country, tears of thee
Sweet land of liberty!

  — Copyright © 2007, Lawrence Ferlinghetti (b. 1919). Reprinted without permission.

And speaking of Lawrence Ferlinghetti, there is a great interview with the legendary Beat Generation poet, publisher, and owner of City Lights bookstore in San Francisco at Democracy Now!, in a variety of formats including .mp3 podcast, .mp4 downloadable and streaming video, and RealMedia streaming audio and video, as well as a rush transcript.

So if interested, check it out.

BLINK 182 - MISS YOU

Hello there
The angel from my nightmare
The shadow in the background of the morgue
The unsuspecting victim
Of darkness in the valley
We can live like Jack and Sally
If we want
Where you can always find me
And we’ll have Halloween on Christmas
And in the night we’ll wish this never ends
We’ll wish this never ends

(I miss you)
(I miss you)

Where are you?
And I’m so sorry
I cannot sleep
I cannot dream tonight
I need somebody and always
This sick, strange darkness
Comes creeping on so haunting every time
And as I stared I counted
The webs from all the spiders
Catching things and eating their insides
Like indecision to call you
And hear your voice of treason
Will you come home
And stop this pain tonight?
Stop this pain tonight

Don’t waste your time on me
You’re already the voice inside my head
(I miss you, miss you)
Don’t waste your time on me
You’re already the voice inside my head
(I miss you, miss you)

Don’t waste your time on me
You’re already the voice inside my head
(I miss you, miss you)
Don’t waste your time on me
You’re already the voice inside my head
(I miss you, miss you)

Don’t waste your time on me
You’re already the voice inside my head
(I miss you, miss you)
Don’t waste your time on me
You’re already the voice inside my head
(I miss you, miss you)

(I miss you, miss you)
(I miss you, miss you)
(I miss you, miss you)
(I miss you, miss you)

RAIN
by Claribel Alegría (translated by Margaret S. Peden)

As the falling rain
trickles among the stones
memories come bubbling out.

It’s as if the rain
had pierced my temples.

Streaming
streaming chaotically
come memories:
the reedy voice
of the servant
telling me tales
of ghosts.

They sat beside me
the ghosts
and the bed creaked
that purple-dark afternoon
when I learned you were leaving forever,
a gleaming pebble
from constant rubbing
becomes a comet.

Rain is falling
falling
and memories keep flooding by
they show me a senseless
world
a voracious
world—abyss
ambush
whirlwind
spur
but I keep loving it
because I do
because of my five senses
because of my amazement
because every morning,
because forever, I have loved it
without knowing why.

From Casting Off by Claribel Alegría. Translated by Margaret Sayers Peden. Copyright © 2003 by Curbstone Press. Distributed by Consortium. Reprinted without permission of Curbstone Press. All rights reserved.

SMASHING PUMPKINS - DISARM

Disarm you with a smile
And cut you like you want me to
Cut that little child
Inside of me and such a part of you
Ooh, the years burn
Ooh, the years burn

I used to be a little boy
So old in my shoes
And what I choose is my choice
What’s a boy supposed to do?
The killer in me is the killer in you
My love
I send this smile over to you

Disarm you with a smile
And leave you like they left me here
To wither in denial
The bitterness of one who’s left alone
Ooh, the years burn
Ooh, the years burn, burn, burn

I used to be a little boy
So old in my shoes
And what I choose is my voice
What’s a boy supposed to do?
The killer in me is the killer in you
My love
I send this smile over to you

The killer in me is the killer in you
Send this smile over to you
The killer in me is the killer in you
Send this smile over to you
The killer in me is the killer in you
Send this smile over to you

FOR MILES

Your sound is faultless
    pure & round
        holy
    almost profound

Your sound is your sound
    true & from within
    a confession
    soulful & lovely

Poet whose sound is played
    l lost or recorded
    but heard
    can you recall that 54 night at the Open Door
    when you & bird
    wailed five in the morning some wondrous
    yet unimaginable score?

  — From GASOLINE, by Gregory Corso (1929 - 2001), American “Beat” poet.

REQUIEM FOR “BIRD” PARKER, MUSICIAN

this prophecy came by mail:
in the last murder of birds
a nowhere bird shall remain
and it shall not wail
and the nowhere bird shall be a slow bird
a long long bird
somewhere there is a room
in a room
in which an old horn
        lies in a corner
like a handful of rice
wondering about BIRD

        first voice

hey, man, BIRD is dead
they got his horn locked up somewhere
put his horn in a corner somewhere
like where’s the horn, man, where?

        second voice

screw the horn
like where’s BIRD?

        third voice

gone
BIRD was goner than sound
broke the barrier with a horn’s coo
BIRD was higher than moon
BIRD hovered on a roof top, too
like a weirdy monk he drooped
horn in hand, high above all
lookin’ down on them people
with half-shut weirdy eyes
saying to himself; “yeah, yeah”
like nothin’ meant nothin’ at all

        fourth voice

in early nightdrunk
solo in his pent house stand
BIRD held a black flower in his black hand
he blew his horn to the sky
made the sky fantastic! and midway
the man-tired use of things
BIRD piped a varied ephemera
a strained rhythmical rat
like the stars didn’t know what to do
then came a nowhere bird

        third voice

yeah, a nowhere bird —
while BIRD was blowin’
another bird came
an unreal bird
a nowhere bird with big draggy wings
BIRD paid it no mind; just kept on blowin’
and the cornball bird came on comin’

        first voice

right, like that’s what I heard
the draggy bird landed in front of BIRD
looked BIRD straight in the eye
BIRD said: “cool it”
and kept on blowin’

        second voice

seems like BIRD put the square bird down

        first voice

only for a while, man
the nowhere bird began to foam from the mouth
making all kinds of discords
“man, like make it somewhere else,” BIRD implored
but the nowhere bird paced back and forth
like an old miser with a nowhere scheme

        third voice

yeah, by that time BIRD realized the fake
had come to goof
BIRD was about to split, when all of a sudden
the nowhere bird sunk its beady head
into the barrel of BIRD’s horn
bugged‚ BIRD blew a long crazy note

        first voice

it was his last‚ man‚ his last
the draggy bird ran death into BIRD’s throat
and the whole building rumbled
when BIRD let go his horn
and the sky got blacker… blacker
and the nowhere bird wrapped its muddy wings round BIRD

        fourth voice

BIRD is dead
BIRD is dead

        first and second and third voices

yeah, yeah

        fourth voice

wail for BIRD
for BIRD is dead

        first and second and third voices

yeah, yeah

  — From The Vestal Lady on Brattle, by Gregory Corso

Girl Lithe and Tawny

Girl lithe and tawny, the sun that forms
the fruits, that plums the grains, that curls seaweeds
filled your body with joy, and your luminous eyes
and your mouth that has the smile of the water.

My sombre heart searches for you, nevertheless,
and I love your joyful body, your slender and flowing
    voice.
Dark daisy, sweet and definitive
like the wheat-field and the sun, the poppy and the water.

  — Pablo Neruda (1904 - 1973), Chilean writer and Communist politician.
     Translation by W.S. Merwin

Tonight I Can Write

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

  — Pablo Neruda (1904 - 1973), Chilean writer and Communist politician.
    Translation by W.S. Merwin