We Tried It Once, and It Didn't Work

O those pioneer days,
those early, early pioneer days!

The man with few cows comes to Loami
to survive with the least milk,
and those are the rules of the phalanx.

Sweet Theophilus Sweet, you reverend
of communion and communism and communal love,
in this phalanx we called the Sangamon Association.

What have you gotten yourself into out there in Loami?
How much will you learn from those Frenchmen in Nauvoo?
How many names will you learn before the plan goes belly up, like a hog on slaughterin' day?

A division of labor,
is the word of the day,
as women work their way out of kitchen,
and creekside washtubs, and itty bitty
baby bundles along the walking path.

A division of labor,
those men, all strapping lads,
all sweat and hair and muscle,
cracking rocks and chopping timber,
digging graves and saying grace.

A division of funds,
throw it all in the same pot,
and everyone throw in a hand,
equal or not, throw in a hand,
and share with your brothers and sisters.

Down in Loami town, this thing didn't last too long,
for Unity House, with all its aspirations, was still
only a house for Man, and then again,
wasn't that the problem to begin with?

On Mourning at VT

What kind of a world
do we live in where people
are killed trying to make
something of their life?

Chuck Brodsky

Little purple flowers on trees don't mean shit,
unless you have the heart to take it all in.

A man can be a man and still understand the
intricate whispers of the world around him.

Floating over this masquerade we call a life,
it's easy to see where the fires need put out.

Just keep your wits about you and keep your eyes on the ball,
you'll see the day coming when you can roll out of bed.

If Chuck Brodsky ever really woke up,
he would write a song to change the world.

And you could too, if you would ever start breathing again.

Darkness in a Bottle of Lysol

Hell don't have no fury
for Vachel Lindsay,
whose travels meant a lot
or a little to the men of his day.

Vachel, my boy, you splashed the
front pages with the words of your
journeys, but it took more than this
to fill you up.

You missed Sara. You longed for her.
Missed her scent, the colors she wore,
always favoring blue. You missed her
kind words and her soft heart for yours.

You married too late, to a youngster,
and how she demanded the money, only you
were in more for words than money, and you never
really provided her the life she needed.

When little Nick came along it was too much.
Sweet Susie had been a burden, but Nick pushed too hard
and Liz never really understood you, especially not
the way Sara had.

And Ernst, what had she seen in him, anyway?
He was but a rich man in money, not in words and ideas
and experiences as you were, and you tried to tell her
this, but she wouldn't listen again and again and again.

You went on writing poems about her and bemoaning her
friendship and mutual admiration, but it was love that you
wanted, to get a hand on her again, to love her and hold
her in the pastures the way you once had.

The city didn't love you, and the men wanted their money,
and your wife was in love with the children in her life,
and it was words that you loved, words, words, words, but
it was darkness you finally chose.

Darkness in a glug, glug, glug bottle of Lysol while you
read through your papers and wondered why they'd never loved
you how you deserved or how they'd loved glug, glug, glug,
their other sons and then it was a final glug, glug, glug, for you.

On the Juxtaposition Between the Juvenile and Infinitesimal

When the dark star crashes,
I will be left to tarry here
with no one to taste but you.

I am going crazy right before your eyes,
but you ignore it and pretend like daylight
fills you up, both heart and soul.

The day will come when worms will eat your eyes
and delightful desserts will be their only
next goal, and then we will remain lovers.

A guitar wail plays in the distance, beautiful but lonely,
the only words you speak, as your tongue was long ago
self-removed, and you cry a silent tear.

There has been no sound in these hills but the scutter
and scuttle of rats for so long that it's no wonder that
everyone cries at the sound of beautiful music.

I have known the survivors of long bouts with the cough
and with the whoop and the TB. I have known them well enough,
have seen then collapse in the sorrowful lung for one another.

Never again, will I suppress my anxiety for the love of youth,
you will never again repay me for the debts of kindness
bespoken to you, or bespoiled of your character.

A knife plunges deep into the heart of madness and renders
even it confused as Joseph Conrad and Patrick Moore hold hands
and do the dance of those obsessed with the lightness of humanity.

Unfold your presence to me, flit about with electric energy,
dance the rafters in an exquisite trance of omnipresence,
tell me there is "something out there, something fantastic."

Light the skies with your mind, and tell the world you know it,
meanwhile, I will sit idly by holding my own hands, folded
comfortably in my lap, laughing to myself at your naivete.

For you are a fool, and if ever the world reflected your silly
sense of self, we'd all leave ourselves at the doormat and bring
only the chaos of our spiritual energies to the orgies we create.