ochlockonee river, florida
right near the outlet of the dead river
flowing into the ochlockonee
an audio burst of songbirds
jump out from a patch of cypress
mad songbirds not sure about tomorrow
kayaks rolling in the confluence
strong thanksgiving day winds
straightening your back in the cockpit
who would of thought a ‘dead’ river
would lead to this?
at the park restrooms
a transvestite sat alone
in her texas pickup truck
not sure where to go next
not sure her kids wanted
to see her on the holidays
shiny black heels
and an electrician’s tool belt
deep lines in her face
questions without answers
over at the next campsite
two women and a man sang hymns
every possible acclamation of jesus
plastered on their rv
clearly giving them the inside track
to salvation
the storms held off
for several more days
the songbirds went quiet
or maybe just moved on
--- e b bortz
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
what was left
after death
the doors were all opened
we could all see
tears drowning
in poison
vein of injustice
vinegar on the crucifix
pontius pilate closing doors
--- e b bortz
(published in The City Poetry, issue 18, March 2007)
the doors were all opened
we could all see
tears drowning
in poison
vein of injustice
vinegar on the crucifix
pontius pilate closing doors
--- e b bortz
(published in The City Poetry, issue 18, March 2007)
Monday, December 12, 2005
earth note 63
for the timber wolf
arctic wind
the fury of opening pandora's box
snowflakes & distant dreams
land of outdoor saunas
frozen lakes
the woosh of cross country skis on sub-zero snow
poplar tamarack white birch
so dense
you lose all secondary thoughts
think only of the gift
a breathing canopy
snowshoe rabbit echoes a quarter-mile
body of trees touch
what's rich inside of you
lakes hard in december
blueness of the sky
a blue too blue to be ignored
partitioned
or grayed
a land chooses those chosen
to live
molding their grace
with the wild
--- e b bortz
arctic wind
the fury of opening pandora's box
snowflakes & distant dreams
land of outdoor saunas
frozen lakes
the woosh of cross country skis on sub-zero snow
poplar tamarack white birch
so dense
you lose all secondary thoughts
think only of the gift
a breathing canopy
snowshoe rabbit echoes a quarter-mile
body of trees touch
what's rich inside of you
lakes hard in december
blueness of the sky
a blue too blue to be ignored
partitioned
or grayed
a land chooses those chosen
to live
molding their grace
with the wild
--- e b bortz
media urination
this is not a test
judith miller decided to stand
and piss all over the seat
now we sit in it
as usual
it will be
poor people cleaning it up
--- e b bortz
judith miller decided to stand
and piss all over the seat
now we sit in it
as usual
it will be
poor people cleaning it up
--- e b bortz
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
earth note 30
cross country skiing
great north woods minnesota
a snowmobile shreds
a perfect white trail
white pine trembles in decibels
--- e b bortz
great north woods minnesota
a snowmobile shreds
a perfect white trail
white pine trembles in decibels
--- e b bortz
Friday, December 02, 2005
earth note 54
snow dust too light to pack
cavities of the street
exposed endings
bold deep asphalt rifts
anonymous black & white pieces hide
naked
wind swept
broom broad lines like brushes
gutter overflow
piling up like the white sands of new mexico
(i remember duststorms in alamogordo)
cold white darkness just before dawn
--- e b bortz
cavities of the street
exposed endings
bold deep asphalt rifts
anonymous black & white pieces hide
naked
wind swept
broom broad lines like brushes
gutter overflow
piling up like the white sands of new mexico
(i remember duststorms in alamogordo)
cold white darkness just before dawn
--- e b bortz
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
union station chicago
latina burdened in backpack
snug against her small body
a journey just begun
sad eyes
ambivalence
lips tight
cheekbones and chin
standing tall
--- e b bortz
snug against her small body
a journey just begun
sad eyes
ambivalence
lips tight
cheekbones and chin
standing tall
--- e b bortz
earth note 93
pittsburgh to chicago on the capitol (capital?) limited
efficiency of the steel rail
when finished & true
and separated from the human hand
is most elegant
if left alone
add humans and trains
it becomes less elegant
less efficient
still better than concrete wastelands
but add in the transport
of tanks & oil tankers
it becomes...
delivers our nemesis
darkness
--- e b bortz
efficiency of the steel rail
when finished & true
and separated from the human hand
is most elegant
if left alone
add humans and trains
it becomes less elegant
less efficient
still better than concrete wastelands
but add in the transport
of tanks & oil tankers
it becomes...
delivers our nemesis
darkness
--- e b bortz
Monday, October 17, 2005
earth note 38
first cold rain reached in this morning
soggy black windowsill
a clear message
seamless cover unassuming
for each
sunlight shifting
way out
strung behind the gray
thick deep brown maples
a few leaves hanging on
looking east their final days
isolated patch of green grass
cold puddle
clean blanket
drowning out the options
nowhere to run
--- e b bortz
soggy black windowsill
a clear message
seamless cover unassuming
for each
sunlight shifting
way out
strung behind the gray
thick deep brown maples
a few leaves hanging on
looking east their final days
isolated patch of green grass
cold puddle
clean blanket
drowning out the options
nowhere to run
--- e b bortz
Friday, September 30, 2005
Jobs Not Guns
Photo from "The Pittsburgh Press" March 5, 1969. Caption reads:
"Much Ado about nothing was what happened when these
sympathizers showed up at the Federal Bldg. to lend moral support
to the refusal of Ed Bortz, right, 20, of the North Side, to be drafted..."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(published in The New People, Pittsburgh, PA, October 2005)
Jobs Not Guns
by e b bortz
Though I didn’t realize it then, it was a completely natural act for me to openly resist military induction in 1969. I was twenty years old and the Vietnam War was raging. When several of us publicly mailed our personal draft cards back to the Selective Service System, we knew it would only be a matter of weeks before they tried to draft us. I was 1-A and had passed the pre-induction physical with flying colors. My “GREETINGS” letter, “you are ordered to report for induction into the United States Army,” came from the Pittsburgh draft board about four weeks after sending my draft card back.
Things had been brewing inside of me for a long time. I heard Dennis Mora, one of the Fort Hood 3 soldiers that refused to ship out to Vietnam in 1966, saying that he wouldn’t fight in an immoral, illegal war of extermination. I considered myself a “selective conscientious objector,” a point of view not recognized by most local draft boards. Open resistance became the only moral position that made sense to me. I would openly resist and take the consequences.
A few days before I was scheduled to report for Army induction, Dr. Benjamin Spock happened to be in Pittsburgh. We all sat on the floor in a supporter’s home in Point Breeze as Ben told us about some of the
young men he had counseled. Many of them were now refusing, because of conscience, to participate in the military death machine. He had spent his life as a pediatrician and this was part of his work. We all looked around the room at each other, knowing that this might be the last time some of us would be gathering. Several in our group were in various stages of legal wrangles, others not present, were already in jail for the stand they took. But our bond was very much alive with all who had walked before us. Our meeting ended with a short announcement about turning out for my solidarity picket line at 6:30 a.m. at the federal building in the coming week.
I needed to write a statement for induction day. The words had gone through my mind hundreds of times already, but I never had actually written it down. I wasn’t a very well organized selective conscientious objector. Supporters would be showing up, and like previous resisters, I needed to say a few words before going into the federal building to confront the Army.
“Today, I’m refusing induction into the United States Army. My fight is not in Vietnam...my fight is right here in Pittsburgh. Youth in Pittsburgh need jobs and education, not guns. My conscience will not let me participate in this immoral war nor be an accomplice to a military machine that napalms villagers, burns rice paddies, and jails anti-war soldiers who also have refused to kill. I’m prepared to face these authorities, but I refuse to
I needed to write a statement for induction day. The words had gone through my mind hundreds of times already, but I never had actually written it down. I wasn’t a very well organized selective conscientious objector. Supporters would be showing up, and like previous resisters, I needed to say a few words before going into the federal building to confront the Army.
“Today, I’m refusing induction into the United States Army. My fight is not in Vietnam...my fight is right here in Pittsburgh. Youth in Pittsburgh need jobs and education, not guns. My conscience will not let me participate in this immoral war nor be an accomplice to a military machine that napalms villagers, burns rice paddies, and jails anti-war soldiers who also have refused to kill. I’m prepared to face these authorities, but I refuse to
recognize their illegal authority to wage war.”
Induction Day. I rolled up a bunch of copies of my statement for my back pocket, stuck a few anti-war buttons in my front pocket, and started walking down Buena Vista Street from the North Side. It was cold but I was warm with energy, my thoughts crystallized and bumping across the cobblestones, smooth and slippery.
Friends and supporters were getting ready to start the picket line when I arrived at the federal building. I felt self-conscious as chanting started...”Ed Won’t Go...Ed Won’t Go.” Other inductees were already going into the federal building as I finished up my little speech, gave my dad a hug, and headed up the steps and on through the thick glass doors.
Soldiers in the lobby herded us inductees to the assembly room upstairs where a sergeant began giving his standard pep talk about how great it was to be in the Army fighting “for freedom.” As the other inductees were squirming anxiously in the school room-type chairs, I decided it was time for me to make my move.
I pulled out my statements and buttons and started passing them out to a bunch of surprised, scared young guys. In a raised clear voice, I was able to get out a few phrases like “There’s no way I’m going to cross the line...this war is immoral and illegal.” Within a minute, a couple of soldiers were escorting me out of the assembly
room and placing me in a small well-lit “classroom” with a round wooden table and a tape recorder plunked down in the middle.
“So, Bortz, what do you want to say?” a clean-cut, flat-top lieutenant asked.
“I already made my statement, I’m sure you have it on tape.”
“But what do you want to say now?”
“I’ve made my statement.”
A few minutes of this and the officer finally gave up and walked out. I sat and examined every aspect of that room for at least an hour, alone with my own thoughts. Now what? Was I going to jail?
The lieutenant finally returned and took me into a large office space with many desks. I was told to sit down next to an empty desk and then left alone. In fact, of the twenty or so desks in this room, all were empty. After a
few minutes a soldier (clerk?) came in and sat at his desk twenty feet away from me. He said nothing and made no eye contact. He seemed to be continuously fiddling with paper and pencil. I thought it was kind of humorous. Maybe he was an auditor looking for those lost millions.
But then something strange happened. The clerk started whistling, in perfect tone, the socialist anthem, “The Internationale.” Guess he was waiting for me to join in, but he never invited me, and I never said a word. I certainly didn’t want to ruin the ambiance of his moment. Maybe the officers needed something on tape, since I wasn’t inclined to give them anything. But it was a funny, spooky diversion nonetheless.
The clerk finally left and I sat alone again, feeling that the longer this whole thing dragged on, the more likely it might end in a stalemate. If I was going to be arrested, why haven’t they done it yet? Or maybe I was already under arrest but didn’t know it? I couldn’t get over how incredibly neat and orderly every desk was. Did they
do any real work here?
It seemed like two hours before the lieutenant finally returned. “We’re going to let you go today while we review your case. Don’t leave town.”
Why shouldn’t I leave town, I thought, but didn’t ask. Was this an order?
“You’ll be getting something in the mail with our determination. You can leave now.”
I didn’t need to hear anymore. I stood up, looked the lieutenant in the eye, and said “Peace!” as I walked out and didn’t look back.
Everyone had left the federal building by then, except for my pregnant sister-in-law Gerry. We went for coffee nearby so I could tell her the whole story.
The “determination” letter finally came a few weeks later saying that the Army had decided not to pursue my case any further. They didn’t want me, but said that I could appeal their decision. Maybe the courts were plugged up, maybe my refusal to sign the “non-subversive” form was enough, maybe there were other legalities, or maybe there were already too many hell-raisers for them to handle.
Conscientious objection and draft resistance cases filled the courts for years to come. Thousands went to Canada. Anti-war soldiers tossed their medals back at the Capitol, others took their own lives. Three million Vietnamese, Cambodians, and Americans never made it through alive.
In the end, we all make choices.
“universal soldier...his orders come from far away no more
they come from him and you and me and brothers can’t you see this is not the way we put an end to war.”
--- buffy sainte-marie
**********************************************************
Induction Day. I rolled up a bunch of copies of my statement for my back pocket, stuck a few anti-war buttons in my front pocket, and started walking down Buena Vista Street from the North Side. It was cold but I was warm with energy, my thoughts crystallized and bumping across the cobblestones, smooth and slippery.
Friends and supporters were getting ready to start the picket line when I arrived at the federal building. I felt self-conscious as chanting started...”Ed Won’t Go...Ed Won’t Go.” Other inductees were already going into the federal building as I finished up my little speech, gave my dad a hug, and headed up the steps and on through the thick glass doors.
Soldiers in the lobby herded us inductees to the assembly room upstairs where a sergeant began giving his standard pep talk about how great it was to be in the Army fighting “for freedom.” As the other inductees were squirming anxiously in the school room-type chairs, I decided it was time for me to make my move.
I pulled out my statements and buttons and started passing them out to a bunch of surprised, scared young guys. In a raised clear voice, I was able to get out a few phrases like “There’s no way I’m going to cross the line...this war is immoral and illegal.” Within a minute, a couple of soldiers were escorting me out of the assembly
room and placing me in a small well-lit “classroom” with a round wooden table and a tape recorder plunked down in the middle.
“So, Bortz, what do you want to say?” a clean-cut, flat-top lieutenant asked.
“I already made my statement, I’m sure you have it on tape.”
“But what do you want to say now?”
“I’ve made my statement.”
A few minutes of this and the officer finally gave up and walked out. I sat and examined every aspect of that room for at least an hour, alone with my own thoughts. Now what? Was I going to jail?
The lieutenant finally returned and took me into a large office space with many desks. I was told to sit down next to an empty desk and then left alone. In fact, of the twenty or so desks in this room, all were empty. After a
few minutes a soldier (clerk?) came in and sat at his desk twenty feet away from me. He said nothing and made no eye contact. He seemed to be continuously fiddling with paper and pencil. I thought it was kind of humorous. Maybe he was an auditor looking for those lost millions.
But then something strange happened. The clerk started whistling, in perfect tone, the socialist anthem, “The Internationale.” Guess he was waiting for me to join in, but he never invited me, and I never said a word. I certainly didn’t want to ruin the ambiance of his moment. Maybe the officers needed something on tape, since I wasn’t inclined to give them anything. But it was a funny, spooky diversion nonetheless.
The clerk finally left and I sat alone again, feeling that the longer this whole thing dragged on, the more likely it might end in a stalemate. If I was going to be arrested, why haven’t they done it yet? Or maybe I was already under arrest but didn’t know it? I couldn’t get over how incredibly neat and orderly every desk was. Did they
do any real work here?
It seemed like two hours before the lieutenant finally returned. “We’re going to let you go today while we review your case. Don’t leave town.”
Why shouldn’t I leave town, I thought, but didn’t ask. Was this an order?
“You’ll be getting something in the mail with our determination. You can leave now.”
I didn’t need to hear anymore. I stood up, looked the lieutenant in the eye, and said “Peace!” as I walked out and didn’t look back.
Everyone had left the federal building by then, except for my pregnant sister-in-law Gerry. We went for coffee nearby so I could tell her the whole story.
The “determination” letter finally came a few weeks later saying that the Army had decided not to pursue my case any further. They didn’t want me, but said that I could appeal their decision. Maybe the courts were plugged up, maybe my refusal to sign the “non-subversive” form was enough, maybe there were other legalities, or maybe there were already too many hell-raisers for them to handle.
Conscientious objection and draft resistance cases filled the courts for years to come. Thousands went to Canada. Anti-war soldiers tossed their medals back at the Capitol, others took their own lives. Three million Vietnamese, Cambodians, and Americans never made it through alive.
In the end, we all make choices.
“universal soldier...his orders come from far away no more
they come from him and you and me and brothers can’t you see this is not the way we put an end to war.”
--- buffy sainte-marie
**********************************************************
Thursday, September 29, 2005
earth note 92
i don’t believe in super-powers
anymore than i believe in nations
isn’t 98+% of our dna
the same as other primates?
o.k. the mind is different
so what dogma do non-human primates
believe in?
what new world order?
abandoned & flooded on the gulf coast
is about the same as a drowning village
in a south asia tsunami
or the expropriation of primate forests
near kilimanjaro
we all
touch the earth
with our skin shedding
try it
you’ll feel the connection
--- e b bortz
anymore than i believe in nations
isn’t 98+% of our dna
the same as other primates?
o.k. the mind is different
so what dogma do non-human primates
believe in?
what new world order?
abandoned & flooded on the gulf coast
is about the same as a drowning village
in a south asia tsunami
or the expropriation of primate forests
near kilimanjaro
we all
touch the earth
with our skin shedding
try it
you’ll feel the connection
--- e b bortz
Friday, September 16, 2005
north country
summer drifted off by itself
almost without notice
slipping over the green hills
leaving september
to change the world
to brown and orange
morning wake up is cold now
like a splash from lake superior
the shock of autumn crawls in
the old drops away exhausted
dried and crisp returning
to origin earth
to feed new life
seagulls hiding above the whitecaps
rolling carpet blue
breaking for the shore
fresh winds from the northwest
deliver an early arctic chill
blowing the tops right off the poplars
leaving them naked
to face the future
canada geese streaming south
past the harbor light
over the deep wooded foothills
quiet broken
by the honker victory chorus
the footloose drifters
bondless spirits
the survivors
rejoicing wailing
into the sunset
i am their brother
--- e b bortz
(published in Voices of a Wanderer, 1993)
almost without notice
slipping over the green hills
leaving september
to change the world
to brown and orange
morning wake up is cold now
like a splash from lake superior
the shock of autumn crawls in
the old drops away exhausted
dried and crisp returning
to origin earth
to feed new life
seagulls hiding above the whitecaps
rolling carpet blue
breaking for the shore
fresh winds from the northwest
deliver an early arctic chill
blowing the tops right off the poplars
leaving them naked
to face the future
canada geese streaming south
past the harbor light
over the deep wooded foothills
quiet broken
by the honker victory chorus
the footloose drifters
bondless spirits
the survivors
rejoicing wailing
into the sunset
i am their brother
--- e b bortz
(published in Voices of a Wanderer, 1993)
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Cindy & Katrina...America's Wakeup Call
The hurricane has only begun...
the war-makers and their apologists
have plundered our nation’s human resources
so arrogantly
that the dead of Iraq and Louisiana and Mississippi
will haunt them, hopefully, for the rest of the century.
And now, when we need the helping hands to recover
from global warming super-charged storms and floods,
where are the hands and the shelters
and the generators and the water pumps
and the medical crews?
Cindy and Katrina have bypassed
all of the politicians, pundits, generals...
speaking so plainly that we should all understand it now:
sometimes the tides of nature
and human history align themselves
in such a way that the paradigm of the old order
no longer functions.
Something has become unleashed
that can’t be contained.
It’s a defining moment right now...
those who will push us into the abyss
with more war and neglect and lies,
and those who will stand straight up
and face the new reality with
a new vision.
The choice is ours.
--- e b bortz
the war-makers and their apologists
have plundered our nation’s human resources
so arrogantly
that the dead of Iraq and Louisiana and Mississippi
will haunt them, hopefully, for the rest of the century.
And now, when we need the helping hands to recover
from global warming super-charged storms and floods,
where are the hands and the shelters
and the generators and the water pumps
and the medical crews?
Cindy and Katrina have bypassed
all of the politicians, pundits, generals...
speaking so plainly that we should all understand it now:
sometimes the tides of nature
and human history align themselves
in such a way that the paradigm of the old order
no longer functions.
Something has become unleashed
that can’t be contained.
It’s a defining moment right now...
those who will push us into the abyss
with more war and neglect and lies,
and those who will stand straight up
and face the new reality with
a new vision.
The choice is ours.
--- e b bortz
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Friday, August 19, 2005
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
forget the monuments
how about a hundred forests
for the resisters and objectors
of conscience
a national statement regarding this
obscene war
and previous ones
and for all the restless bodies
from arlington national cemetery
the souls who have reconsidered
in death
all their missions
let’s plant a tree next to their gravestone
let them rest
without banging drums
bugling snarling politicians
peel off the names of the dead
place them beside the names
of the prisoners
--- e b bortz
(published in ActionOrange, December 2009)
for the resisters and objectors
of conscience
a national statement regarding this
obscene war
and previous ones
and for all the restless bodies
from arlington national cemetery
the souls who have reconsidered
in death
all their missions
let’s plant a tree next to their gravestone
let them rest
without banging drums
bugling snarling politicians
peel off the names of the dead
place them beside the names
of the prisoners
--- e b bortz
(published in ActionOrange, December 2009)
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
earth note 91
no-name key didn’t have
a soul
awake
when we rolled up the road
past the cabin with solar panels
on the roof...no power lines
even the dogs were sleeping
endangered key deer
pranced right out to the road
took a look and headed
back toward the mangroves
put our kayaks out
from a mucky bottom
dead seaweed
& other plants
at the end of their cycles
maybe the gulf waves noticed
as they picked up a few whitecaps
we headed for the next no-name key
a bit smaller
more alive
the water clear
all the way down
--- e b bortz
a soul
awake
when we rolled up the road
past the cabin with solar panels
on the roof...no power lines
even the dogs were sleeping
endangered key deer
pranced right out to the road
took a look and headed
back toward the mangroves
put our kayaks out
from a mucky bottom
dead seaweed
& other plants
at the end of their cycles
maybe the gulf waves noticed
as they picked up a few whitecaps
we headed for the next no-name key
a bit smaller
more alive
the water clear
all the way down
--- e b bortz
Monday, August 01, 2005
earth note 1
bowels of red rock shattered
sharp and loose
piling up near swan lake
north minnesota outcasts ripped from bosoms
hot and firm
rock bleeds red shadows
red dust stained white birch bark
fresh and blue the spring air turns
cold crystal
snowmelt running
past the outcrop land made waste
‘neath dusty iron claw machineprints
draglines trucks loaders
gnarl
trample
assault
north wind answers
ice tears
--- e b bortz
sharp and loose
piling up near swan lake
north minnesota outcasts ripped from bosoms
hot and firm
rock bleeds red shadows
red dust stained white birch bark
fresh and blue the spring air turns
cold crystal
snowmelt running
past the outcrop land made waste
‘neath dusty iron claw machineprints
draglines trucks loaders
gnarl
trample
assault
north wind answers
ice tears
--- e b bortz
Friday, July 22, 2005
earth note 72
morning coconut shell fires
hang in the gulf of thailand
rubber trees and teak
the soft and hard edges of every question
morning mountain
lush green alleghenies
it's all one continuous stream
going from flood to dry wash
between sunsets
a new set of images to blanket the old
colors we perceived before as
the real
the questions we have avoided
until now
always now
bullying its way to the front
no path
no signposts
--- e b bortz
hang in the gulf of thailand
rubber trees and teak
the soft and hard edges of every question
morning mountain
lush green alleghenies
it's all one continuous stream
going from flood to dry wash
between sunsets
a new set of images to blanket the old
colors we perceived before as
the real
the questions we have avoided
until now
always now
bullying its way to the front
no path
no signposts
--- e b bortz
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
those nerve endings
on the roof of my mouth
are a loose bundle of conduit
right to the brain
they carry curry
cinnamon
broken promises
electrical pulses
frequencies fixed and random
an alternate state
of being without a plan
graffiti gray sunrise
locked away in a vault
i crawl to the safety
of my rock
--- e b bortz
are a loose bundle of conduit
right to the brain
they carry curry
cinnamon
broken promises
electrical pulses
frequencies fixed and random
an alternate state
of being without a plan
graffiti gray sunrise
locked away in a vault
i crawl to the safety
of my rock
--- e b bortz
Monday, July 18, 2005
earth note 10
tour of the scioto river valley,
mother's day weekend 1995
six thousand bicycles
columbus to portsmouth ohio and back
two hundred and ten miles
collective individualism
asphalt self-indulgence
extra-gentle green-edged ribbon
flat and mildly rolling
springing upon sleepy villages
bare-backed farmers
tractors grunting
herefords guernseys arabians morgans
sunflowers corn timothy clover
when the weather changes every twenty miles
it’s good to get sucked in behind a line of tandems
drafting
head down in the rain
water chilled reckoning
let the legs ache
daydream away
piss it all out at the next rest-stop
the prison at chillicothe is always windy
open fields and razor wire
guard towers and trustees
whistle at the lycra buttocks battalion
small talk sometimes more jumps between the lines
where you from which gym are you sleeping in
how many years have you done this ride
voices and wheels blend with the river
scioto river
unruffled accompanist
always giving
guiding the roadway forward
weaving down to the bridge at portsmouth
weathered steel over cold brown water
outstretched arm opening
to simple truths
--- e b bortz
mother's day weekend 1995
six thousand bicycles
columbus to portsmouth ohio and back
two hundred and ten miles
collective individualism
asphalt self-indulgence
extra-gentle green-edged ribbon
flat and mildly rolling
springing upon sleepy villages
bare-backed farmers
tractors grunting
herefords guernseys arabians morgans
sunflowers corn timothy clover
when the weather changes every twenty miles
it’s good to get sucked in behind a line of tandems
drafting
head down in the rain
water chilled reckoning
let the legs ache
daydream away
piss it all out at the next rest-stop
the prison at chillicothe is always windy
open fields and razor wire
guard towers and trustees
whistle at the lycra buttocks battalion
small talk sometimes more jumps between the lines
where you from which gym are you sleeping in
how many years have you done this ride
voices and wheels blend with the river
scioto river
unruffled accompanist
always giving
guiding the roadway forward
weaving down to the bridge at portsmouth
weathered steel over cold brown water
outstretched arm opening
to simple truths
--- e b bortz
Sunday, July 17, 2005
little voices
there was so much fire & brimstone cross-talk
on my phone line last night that i thought
jesus himself was gonna jump right in
off the line
and smack me upside my head
for my creeping pagan
ism
complete disinterest in all that
christian fundamental
ism
ranting talk show host
tongue merchants
time for secular
cellular
?
--- e b bortz
on my phone line last night that i thought
jesus himself was gonna jump right in
off the line
and smack me upside my head
for my creeping pagan
ism
complete disinterest in all that
christian fundamental
ism
ranting talk show host
tongue merchants
time for secular
cellular
?
--- e b bortz
Saturday, July 16, 2005
earth note 3
southside pittsburgh
boxcars rocking over rusted roadbed
dense steel inertia
perfect circles rammed together
swiping beaten riverbank shoulders
ripped-out steel-wool armpits
green river limping
broken concrete landings
splintered glass aluminum cans
gnarled trees
squirm in silt
shifting water
a limb broken by impatience
reaches for the sky
brown ducks
dull
lost
feathers & ripple circles opening
beneath disciplined worldly gulls
white transient newcomers
infiltrators slipping in
in the shadows of coal barges
looking for a place to crash
strung out from too many storms
coast of heartbreaks
looking to the empty banks
lost iron veins
plowed by plunder
black barren layers of earth soot flyash
looking for the perfect hideout
a lifeline
a place to call home
---- e b bortz
boxcars rocking over rusted roadbed
dense steel inertia
perfect circles rammed together
swiping beaten riverbank shoulders
ripped-out steel-wool armpits
green river limping
broken concrete landings
splintered glass aluminum cans
gnarled trees
squirm in silt
shifting water
a limb broken by impatience
reaches for the sky
brown ducks
dull
lost
feathers & ripple circles opening
beneath disciplined worldly gulls
white transient newcomers
infiltrators slipping in
in the shadows of coal barges
looking for a place to crash
strung out from too many storms
coast of heartbreaks
looking to the empty banks
lost iron veins
plowed by plunder
black barren layers of earth soot flyash
looking for the perfect hideout
a lifeline
a place to call home
---- e b bortz
Friday, July 15, 2005
earth note 64
who would ever
lift a swampy old tire from the river
and smell its innerbelt
let the road print mark you
without thinking of the billion
grains of dust
that tire swallowed
or the warm tar
black ice
traveled
before being doused
in holy water
--- e b bortz
(published in earth notes and other poems, Least Bittern Books, 2015)
lift a swampy old tire from the river
and smell its innerbelt
let the road print mark you
without thinking of the billion
grains of dust
that tire swallowed
or the warm tar
black ice
traveled
before being doused
in holy water
--- e b bortz
(published in earth notes and other poems, Least Bittern Books, 2015)
Thursday, July 14, 2005
dalai lama pittsburgh edition 3:55 a.m.
your spirit is only a guide
life inside isn't really any more clear
a question might still begin with a question
ice and pine cones break
shatter preconceived dogma
have you seen them?
your insight is needed here
like the wind
shaking everything
until we notice
i will listen
all i know
is that there were lightning strikes before we stood erect
--- e b bortz
life inside isn't really any more clear
a question might still begin with a question
ice and pine cones break
shatter preconceived dogma
have you seen them?
your insight is needed here
like the wind
shaking everything
until we notice
i will listen
all i know
is that there were lightning strikes before we stood erect
--- e b bortz
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Journey
The only thing my Uncle Jake would say about Holden Caulfield was that he was a “bourgeois Rebel Without a Cause.” Uncle Jake was a communist carpenter from Bloomfield, a tight working-class neighborhood on the other side of Pittsburgh. I didn’t really care what Uncle Jake thought about Holden, I loved them both --- Holden and Jake --- and even James Dean. I didn’t really see the contradiction.
So when my English teacher Mr. Brozavich asked me the next day what did I think of Holden’s attitude toward society, Jake’s comments about Holden’s “petty-bourgeois anti-social behavior” kept ringing in my head.
But I answered, “Holden had a cause.”
“And what was that?”
“His cause was being Holden.”
“I don’t understand,” Brozavich probed.
“Well, I look at it like this. Maybe he felt that all those boarding schools were really jails for rich kids. He wanted to be free. Holden lived in 1950s America --- a pretty stale place.”
“Guess you could argue for that a little more?” Brozavich asked.
“O.k., Holden wanted to be free, like the picture on the front of the Bob Dylan Freewheelin’ album. It’s about individual freedom, but also a more free society.”
Brozavich seemed satisfied that I got something out of Catcher in the Rye.
He said, “O.k. Benji, seems like you read it,” as he entered a check mark next to my name in his rather worn black grading book.
That was a breeze I thought, maybe Broz just didn’t want to hear from me anymore. He had a whole class of oral book reports to get through this period, so I was done.
I went back to my chair and thought about the liner notes on the back of the Freewheelin’ Dylan album. I wanted to split from Pittsburgh --- hit the highway just like Dylan might do on any given morning from anytown in this 1964 America.
A yellow haze hung outside Oliver High School’s crystal clear windows. It was late May and easy to daydream about the coming summer and what adventure might bring.
I finished out my sophomore year without incident and without much effort. I was the classic “underachiever” according to the school counselor. I wore the label easily, just like I wore my soft black levis. It was comfortable. I had other things on my mind, like hitchhiking out of Pittsburgh when school let out.
Reggie was graduating this year from Peabody High School on the other side of town, and was looking to find his way into life as a jazz or modern dancer. Six feet tall, wiry and muscular, his bronze face could bring out a whole story in a couple of movements. I had just seen him perform with some avant-garde dance group on Channel 13. I knew nothing about the art, but I liked the free flow of all the bodies on the stage. It had some kind
of power --- freedom --- yeah, that idea again. Little did I know how much discipline it all took until Reggie clued me in.
So Reggie and I were going to hitchhike to New York City a little after the
Fourth of July. My dad was cautiously o.k. with the idea. “Don’t get arrested for anything,” was his parting advice.
Reggie’s friend Ramon dropped us off at the Pennsylvania Turnpike
entrance near Monroeville. It was about an hour into daylight, warming up fast, with a gray haze swirling around the distant hills past the shopping center.
We knew trucks weren’t allowed to stop for hitchhikers, so when a big red rig rolled to a stop on the entrance ramp and the driver asked us which way we were going, we were kind of surprised.
“Goin’ east to New York City,” I said.
“I can drop you off on Canal Street near Chinatown if you guys want.”
“O.K!” We both jumped in and threw our duffle bags behind the big
front seat.
The truck roared so loud it was almost impossible to hear anyone speak. The trucker whose name was Claudius hated his name and called himself Clyde. We all took our turns yelling over the roar about the lousy road, the diesel stink from all the other trucks, and Clyde’s stories of losing women, money, and jobs. Clyde of course did most of the talking.
“Those goddamn dispatchers keep givin’ me the worst runs,” Clyde shouted. “I can’t make a fuckin’ living in this business. And without that, ain’t no woman gonna hang around too long.”
We sighed with each new episode, out of deference to our host, until the truck roar and afternoon heat just pulled my eyelids shut.
The truck bounced on the cobblestones up to a stoplight on Canal Street in Manhattan as we grabbed our bags and bailed out into the grimy, sticky evening. It was a short walk to the subway, and a quick ride to Washington Square Park in Greenwich Village.
Night had already set in but life near the fountain in the park was just getting started. Three or four guitars and a dozen voices were all doing variations of Don’t Think Twice it’s Alright. Reggie scampered over to a couple of empty wooden benches where we dumped our bags and stretched out in squatter fashion without paying any attention to who was around us.
“We need a place to crash tonight. Might as well try this spot,” Reggie explained. “We can look for a cheap hotel tomorrow.”
We had pooled about two hundred dollars together before we left Pittsburgh, but that was about the extent of our planning. Everything else was pure spontaneity. We were home for the night unless the cops drove us out. Even close enough to a toilet. What more could we ask for? I grabbed a flannel shirt out of my duffle bag as it cooled off, but other than that, a few distant voices and occasional taxi horn along Sixth Avenue were about the only thing that interfered with the way Reggie and I spent a lot of our weekend nights rappin’ about everything...his Coltrane, my Dylan, his Sonny Rollins, my Joan Baez. We both had visions of what it would be like to be in Mississippi this summer, like our friend Dale, helping to register black people to vote. But we were too young. I was sixteen, he was seventeen and they wouldn’t take us for the Mississippi Freedom Summer Project. So here we were in the Village, retracing the steps of so many before us --- Dylan and the Jazz Crusaders, a mix not unlike our own unique brotherhood.
Our morning ritual was about to begin. Reggie pointed behind the hedges to a small pile of beer bottles and said, “Let’s get ‘em before somebody else does. That’s change, man.” So we went about our work gathering up the quart bottles, dumping out the remainders and putting them in a couple of paper grocery bags that we picked up out of the trash can. We went right to a store on Sixth Avenue and cashed it all in for a total of $1.30. Enough for breakfast.
So Reggie and I were going to hitchhike to New York City a little after the
Fourth of July. My dad was cautiously o.k. with the idea. “Don’t get arrested for anything,” was his parting advice.
Reggie’s friend Ramon dropped us off at the Pennsylvania Turnpike
entrance near Monroeville. It was about an hour into daylight, warming up fast, with a gray haze swirling around the distant hills past the shopping center.
We knew trucks weren’t allowed to stop for hitchhikers, so when a big red rig rolled to a stop on the entrance ramp and the driver asked us which way we were going, we were kind of surprised.
“Goin’ east to New York City,” I said.
“I can drop you off on Canal Street near Chinatown if you guys want.”
“O.K!” We both jumped in and threw our duffle bags behind the big
front seat.
The truck roared so loud it was almost impossible to hear anyone speak. The trucker whose name was Claudius hated his name and called himself Clyde. We all took our turns yelling over the roar about the lousy road, the diesel stink from all the other trucks, and Clyde’s stories of losing women, money, and jobs. Clyde of course did most of the talking.
“Those goddamn dispatchers keep givin’ me the worst runs,” Clyde shouted. “I can’t make a fuckin’ living in this business. And without that, ain’t no woman gonna hang around too long.”
We sighed with each new episode, out of deference to our host, until the truck roar and afternoon heat just pulled my eyelids shut.
The truck bounced on the cobblestones up to a stoplight on Canal Street in Manhattan as we grabbed our bags and bailed out into the grimy, sticky evening. It was a short walk to the subway, and a quick ride to Washington Square Park in Greenwich Village.
Night had already set in but life near the fountain in the park was just getting started. Three or four guitars and a dozen voices were all doing variations of Don’t Think Twice it’s Alright. Reggie scampered over to a couple of empty wooden benches where we dumped our bags and stretched out in squatter fashion without paying any attention to who was around us.
“We need a place to crash tonight. Might as well try this spot,” Reggie explained. “We can look for a cheap hotel tomorrow.”
We had pooled about two hundred dollars together before we left Pittsburgh, but that was about the extent of our planning. Everything else was pure spontaneity. We were home for the night unless the cops drove us out. Even close enough to a toilet. What more could we ask for? I grabbed a flannel shirt out of my duffle bag as it cooled off, but other than that, a few distant voices and occasional taxi horn along Sixth Avenue were about the only thing that interfered with the way Reggie and I spent a lot of our weekend nights rappin’ about everything...his Coltrane, my Dylan, his Sonny Rollins, my Joan Baez. We both had visions of what it would be like to be in Mississippi this summer, like our friend Dale, helping to register black people to vote. But we were too young. I was sixteen, he was seventeen and they wouldn’t take us for the Mississippi Freedom Summer Project. So here we were in the Village, retracing the steps of so many before us --- Dylan and the Jazz Crusaders, a mix not unlike our own unique brotherhood.
Our morning ritual was about to begin. Reggie pointed behind the hedges to a small pile of beer bottles and said, “Let’s get ‘em before somebody else does. That’s change, man.” So we went about our work gathering up the quart bottles, dumping out the remainders and putting them in a couple of paper grocery bags that we picked up out of the trash can. We went right to a store on Sixth Avenue and cashed it all in for a total of $1.30. Enough for breakfast.
“This is our daily work,” Reggie smiled.
“Like livin’ off the fat of the land,” I answered.
After a fairly greasy couple of eggs and home-fries, we started walking toward Broadway where we heard there were cheap hotels. The streets were filthy with garbage and newspapers flying around in a swirl of noisy traffic. Not that Pittsburgh was a garden spot or anything. But New York sure had a garbage problem. A rat the size of a cat scared the hell out of me as it jumped out in front of us near Twelfth and Broadway.
“There it is,” Reggie said pointing across the street. “I heard the Saint John is about as cheap as we can get.”
We walked up the old, formerly ornate hotel steps into a dimly lit lobby. An oily looking clerk was dozing at the counter, but quickly opened his eyes as we approached.
“We want a room for a few weeks, how much?” Reggie asked.
The clerk looked us over some and said he could let it go for $6 a night. We said o.k. and gave him a week’s rent.
The bathroom was in the third floor hallway and had a single shower stall. Our room was across a linoleum hallway that had seen better days. Our room was small but it had a sink and one double bed that seemed to have clean sheets. It would be hot so it was nice to have a window even if it did look out into an alleyway of bricks
and fire escapes.
Sharing a bed would work out o.k. because it had to. The price was right and I was pretty skinny. So that was it for as long as our money would hold out. When things got tight, we would come up with another spontaneous gig. Maybe we’d get to know somebody and crash at their place. We would be resourceful.
We dumped our bags, and with an open window and a small fan purring away, fell into a deep afternoon sleep --- a ritual that would be repeated many times that summer. We would wake up in time to catch dinner in the early evening at any number of greasy-spoon diners along Broadway or on some of the dark side streets. And then we’d be off to the Village, to Bleeker or MacDougal Street to see what was happening.
Reggie had an eye for the avant-garde dives. “Let’s check this one out,” he said as we passed a castle-looking facade on MacDougal Street.
It was very dark with only a spotlight at the small stage. A saxophone, trumpet, stand-up bass, and a snare drum kept beating out the weirdest sounds I had ever heard.
“It’s free-form,” Reggie explained. “It doesn’t need harmony or melody, but it does connect if you listen close. Coltrane could go on for hours this way.”
I didn’t get it. Maybe if I listened long enough I would.
“What do you guys want?” a waitress asked. “Beer is $2 but we don’t have a cover.”
It was still way too much for us. My face squirmed as I looked right into her deep brown eyes for sympathy.
“O.k. fellas, just hang tight a minute,” she said. She returned quickly with two empty Falstaff cans and put them in front of us. We fell immediately in love with this woman.
The music finally got through to me and we stayed until midnight. Just as I thought I was hearing melody, the trumpet or sax would take off into some wild dissonance. It never made any sense to me, but I liked the wildness anyway. Reggie played his imaginary bass the whole night, his own bass still back in Pittsburgh.
The folk music joints were usually packed and there was no sitting for free. We’d hear the music from the sidewalk, but that was about as close as we got. Sometimes we’d just grab a couple of trash cans to sit on and do our usual rapping for hours on end. After a couple of weeks, the tourists starting looking at us like we belonged there --- “Look honey, Greenwich Village bohemians.”
The weeks rolled into a month and on August 6 we found ourselves in the middle of a Washington Square peace rally. It was the day Hiroshima was bombed in 1945. There was a survivor of the atom bomb blast who described the horror of it all. Neither one of us had ever heard or seen anything like this. Reggie noticed the small black and white peace symbol buttons that were being sold for a quarter. We both bought one. I pinned it with conviction on my blue denim work-shirt.
And then there was a real surprise. Joan Baez, dark hair flowing, climbed on to the stage and sang Dylan’s Blowin in the Wind. The couple thousand or so people stood in complete awe and silence. “How many deaths will it take 'til he knows that too many people have died?...the answer my friend is blowin’ in the wind.”
After all the speeches and music we joined in a march to the United Nations. I felt connected to something much bigger than anything I had ever experienced. I wasn’t religious but it seemed like some kind of spirit was certainly moving through the crowd. Reggie ended up walking with one very beautiful woman named Judi who had chestnut-colored hair and a quick smile. Reggie was the good-looking one, no question about it. But we all walked together and felt the moment as one. Judi was in her early twenties and a graduate student at City College. Reggie and I lied and said we were two years older than we actually were. Reggie was now 19 and I was now 18. Maybe that was still too young, but she seemed really interested in how we hitchhiked to New York and how we were living on our own.
“So what are you guys gonna do after the summer?” she asked.
“Good question,” Reggie answered. “I’m hoping to go to Buffalo for a dance gig. Yeah, Buffalo. The choreographer that I know said there would be a two month show there and that they could use me in the troupe. Then maybe on to New York or Boston.”
“Sounds good.” Judi was impressed. “And what about you Benji?”
“I’m going to Pitt in September,” a lie I could never reconcile with being a high school junior.
“What will you major in?” Judi asked.
“I think journalism or maybe poetry,” I quickly answered hoping it wouldn’t lead to another question.
“There’s a big difference between journalism and poetry,” she said.
“Well, I guess you could say I’m just not sure of anything. I’m pretty undisciplined for journalism, so maybe it’ll be poetry. Or maybe even political science.”
“Ah-hah, political science, well that’s me,” Judi jumped in. “In fact I’m a communist.”
My mouth dropped as I looked at Reggie in disbelief. “My Uncle Jake is a communist, but I didn’t think there was anyone under 40 who was a communist.”
Judi was a little insulted, but anxious to explain, which she did in some detail, including what dialectical historical materialism was. It was more than Reggie and I had bargained for. But we were really curious, and somewhat infatuated with this “older woman” so we listened closely.
When the march ended, the three of us went to Forty-Second Street to eat. New York had a way of starving me, so Reggie and I splurged on the biggest pasta dinner we could find. Judi knew right where to go. And she bought a big bottle of wine for us to celebrate our newfound friendship. Reggie talked about jazz and dancing, Judi lectured on politics, and I just took it all in. I was comfortable in my role as the official sponge. As we were getting ready to leave, Judi gave us her phone number and address and told us to definitely call her before we left New York. We could come and visit her if we wanted. I knew Reggie wanted to kiss her before we left the restaurant, so I got up to go to the bathroom.
Their lips were still locked on each other in a quiet corner of the cafe as I opened the bathroom door and started walking back toward the table. They quickly broke it off as I awkwardly stared away from them. I felt left out, a little sad, but also happy. After all, Reggie was my best friend --- no, brother. I was glad he might make it with her. Her eyes definitely had that gleam when she looked at him.
We, I should say, Reggie, didn’t wait too long to call Judi again. In fact he called her the next day. And wouldn’t you know, Reggie’s birthday was coming up in a few days and Judi wanted to have a cake and throw him a small party.
We cleaned up our best for the party at Judi’s apartment on the Lower East Side.
A dozen people, all strangers to us, came to the apartment with wine and food of all types. I ate falafels, hummus, and baba ghanoush for the first time. They must have been trying to make communists out of Reggie and me, even if we were undisciplined bohemians, bordering on “lumpen,” most definitely not “vanguard” material in my opinion. When the guy in the black beret started smoking a joint and passed it along to me, another first was recorded. It worked on me quickly and it took some real effort to pry me away from the fried zucchini, also spiked with hash.
So that’s what the communists were up to now. Maybe the grass will end up making them more like me, than making me, like them.
When I woke in the morning, people were strung over the whole living room. Much to my surprise, I ended up on the couch. Reggie and Judi ended up in the bedroom. There were still quiet giggles floating out into the hallway as everyone else raised their voices slightly in order to avoid eavesdropping.
The sun broke through the eastern windows with a boldness I could only think of as an awakening. I had seen and felt something totally new and was ready to move on for those last torturous years of high school. Leaving New York ended up being the most restless farewell. Reggie decided to stay on with Judi until it was time to go to Buffalo. We wished each other the best of luck, brothers to the end, regardless of where things might end up. I went back to the dingy hotel room to pick up my duffle bag, and then headed toward the Holland Tunnel. A summer thunderstorm was just breaking open as a trucker from Arkansas pulled up toward the tunnel entrance and offered me a ride, my little cardboard sign simply saying “Pittsburgh or Anywhere West.”
I climbed in as the thunder and downpour became the road ahead.
earth note 24
lafayette river, virginia
cormorants puffed in the wind listening
reflect on choppy water
on moorings
at rest in a circle of ruffled bonoparte gulls
motionless
like a trance at a seance
a crazy laughing crow loose restless
puts on shades
screams something about freedom at sunrise
canada geese unraveling
ragged on the edges
split the bridge light standards
thumbing their beaks
to the demons
a canoe makes love to the river
tongues a kevlar body
bent shaft paddle cadence
perfect timing and in-tune
upstream bloated sailboats in tight silk sheets
wind-filled & breathless
transcending the bow
a faint spray of sunshine rides the jib
clean sharp rolls
flight-like
a black and white cat tiptoes near the dock
curved back tension ears erect
wild green eyes fake a gesture
toward the shoreline
a community of ducks huddle in drizzle
northeast clouds gather
deliver
sobering refrain
--- e b bortz
cormorants puffed in the wind listening
reflect on choppy water
on moorings
at rest in a circle of ruffled bonoparte gulls
motionless
like a trance at a seance
a crazy laughing crow loose restless
puts on shades
screams something about freedom at sunrise
canada geese unraveling
ragged on the edges
split the bridge light standards
thumbing their beaks
to the demons
a canoe makes love to the river
tongues a kevlar body
bent shaft paddle cadence
perfect timing and in-tune
upstream bloated sailboats in tight silk sheets
wind-filled & breathless
transcending the bow
a faint spray of sunshine rides the jib
clean sharp rolls
flight-like
a black and white cat tiptoes near the dock
curved back tension ears erect
wild green eyes fake a gesture
toward the shoreline
a community of ducks huddle in drizzle
northeast clouds gather
deliver
sobering refrain
--- e b bortz
Sunday, July 10, 2005
earth note 27
bahia honda beach, florida keys
through the snorkel glass tiger striped grunt
commands the brushy ocean bottom
one then two then a whole school
mass movement
a waving march in textured sponge wombs
a purple bush
a light green staff
sunlight spots like jewels
a lobster motionless on the floor
camped near a refuge
a barracuda on the perimeter
the tiger column passes
without losing form until shaken
by a sandbar
dispersing each
to new venues
new rendezvous
--- e b bortz
through the snorkel glass tiger striped grunt
commands the brushy ocean bottom
one then two then a whole school
mass movement
a waving march in textured sponge wombs
a purple bush
a light green staff
sunlight spots like jewels
a lobster motionless on the floor
camped near a refuge
a barracuda on the perimeter
the tiger column passes
without losing form until shaken
by a sandbar
dispersing each
to new venues
new rendezvous
--- e b bortz
Monday, July 04, 2005
chasing hank snow all the way to brooklyn nova scotia
hearing john mellencamp
ask america
what's left of our soul
like who do we want to impress
now
the exxons of the world
or the folks
sinking & slipping
off the side
waking up to find
the only thing real
is the inequity
& when & where did the lady from ellis island
lose her tongue
to mostly silence now
unlike the days when my grandparents
landed on the lower east side of ny
tenements of anarchists and socialists
litvak now american
sisters of the triangle shirt factory fire
putting their shoulders to the machinery
of the amalgamated
steaming canal street pushcarts
america where do we go from here?
the great woods of the maritime provinces
gathered up loyalists
from the american revolution
stole the land of the aboriginal nations
disowned french colonizers
& tucked them away
for their eventual debut
on the grand ole opry of the 1950s
interdependence not independence
should be the message of every july 4th
still
african people die of malaria and aids
while the exxons keep our attention split
on gas prices
middle east war contracts
the meaninglessness of all the variations
of republicrats
always with an oily hand
in our pocket
america where do we go from here?
hank snow kept bringing up
his lobster pots empty
like the last of them crawled out
at high tide
made their great escape
searching deeper quieter coves
leaving those depending on their catch
to find new ways of surviving
chords and stories
plucked out on rickety wooden stages
of appalachia
broken-down coal miner pentecostal churches
rock farmers of eastern kentucky
louisiana delta blues sharecroppers
their children & grandchildren
being trashed
in a bloody crucible of energy politics
rationalizing the new world order
of the takers and plunderers
america where are the givers?
where do we go from here?
wetlands and hardwoods
north of liverpool nova scotia
a sanctuary with many answers
will we find them
find links from the mi’kmaq ancestors
guardians of the living
before the spoiling
connections the status seekers
killers of the dream
are blind to
from the depths off digby neck
there's a secret or two
we need to pay attention to
‘cause the sea never gives up its dead
space in our memories
marooned inner-voices
--- e b bortz
(published in opednews.com, Dec 1, 2011)
(published in firedoglake.com, Oct 23, 2013)
ask america
what's left of our soul
like who do we want to impress
now
the exxons of the world
or the folks
sinking & slipping
off the side
waking up to find
the only thing real
is the inequity
& when & where did the lady from ellis island
lose her tongue
to mostly silence now
unlike the days when my grandparents
landed on the lower east side of ny
tenements of anarchists and socialists
litvak now american
sisters of the triangle shirt factory fire
putting their shoulders to the machinery
of the amalgamated
steaming canal street pushcarts
america where do we go from here?
the great woods of the maritime provinces
gathered up loyalists
from the american revolution
stole the land of the aboriginal nations
disowned french colonizers
& tucked them away
for their eventual debut
on the grand ole opry of the 1950s
interdependence not independence
should be the message of every july 4th
still
african people die of malaria and aids
while the exxons keep our attention split
on gas prices
middle east war contracts
the meaninglessness of all the variations
of republicrats
always with an oily hand
in our pocket
america where do we go from here?
hank snow kept bringing up
his lobster pots empty
like the last of them crawled out
at high tide
made their great escape
searching deeper quieter coves
leaving those depending on their catch
to find new ways of surviving
chords and stories
plucked out on rickety wooden stages
of appalachia
broken-down coal miner pentecostal churches
rock farmers of eastern kentucky
louisiana delta blues sharecroppers
their children & grandchildren
being trashed
in a bloody crucible of energy politics
rationalizing the new world order
of the takers and plunderers
america where are the givers?
where do we go from here?
wetlands and hardwoods
north of liverpool nova scotia
a sanctuary with many answers
will we find them
find links from the mi’kmaq ancestors
guardians of the living
before the spoiling
connections the status seekers
killers of the dream
are blind to
from the depths off digby neck
there's a secret or two
we need to pay attention to
‘cause the sea never gives up its dead
space in our memories
marooned inner-voices
--- e b bortz
(published in opednews.com, Dec 1, 2011)
(published in firedoglake.com, Oct 23, 2013)
Sunday, July 03, 2005
earth note 73
allegheny mountain morning wake up
a tractor trailer whines off highway 150
a cigarette boat racer splits apart
lake docile
deer and woodchuck dive
for thicket
clear creek hides
trickles past hefty straight jack-pine
a pair of anxious cardinals flinch
with a shotgun blast from the ridge
leap to flight
turning a perfect 90 degrees
symmetry
covers red maple
a moment
of eastern sun
--- e b bortz
a tractor trailer whines off highway 150
a cigarette boat racer splits apart
lake docile
deer and woodchuck dive
for thicket
clear creek hides
trickles past hefty straight jack-pine
a pair of anxious cardinals flinch
with a shotgun blast from the ridge
leap to flight
turning a perfect 90 degrees
symmetry
covers red maple
a moment
of eastern sun
--- e b bortz
earth note 5
butler county, pennsylvania
backhoe corridors
through pine and poplar forests
like a knife
laying galvanized and plastic drainpipes
concrete and asphalt scar tissue
a superhighway network of broken promises
misdevelopment and executive boxes
still
little boxes made out of ticky-tac
malvina reynolds sang
gates and stale gray fences
opulence on-sale
down the highway a strip-mall sneaks up
next year a bigger-mall
maybe a super-mall
gorging previously living hillsides
perfect waters misdirected
clearcut twisted sunrise
we left you starvation
cars trucks
the gun
run whitetail
--- e b bortz
(published in earth notes and other poems, Least Bittern Books, 2015)
backhoe corridors
through pine and poplar forests
like a knife
laying galvanized and plastic drainpipes
concrete and asphalt scar tissue
a superhighway network of broken promises
misdevelopment and executive boxes
still
little boxes made out of ticky-tac
malvina reynolds sang
gates and stale gray fences
opulence on-sale
down the highway a strip-mall sneaks up
next year a bigger-mall
maybe a super-mall
gorging previously living hillsides
perfect waters misdirected
clearcut twisted sunrise
we left you starvation
cars trucks
the gun
run whitetail
--- e b bortz
(published in earth notes and other poems, Least Bittern Books, 2015)
Friday, July 01, 2005
earth note 18
mouth of the peace river, punta gorda, florida
blue gray shadows rising
a rolling crown of seagulls
their royalty without boundaries
dreams without boundaries
sunrays diffuse
jettison thru the horizon
from the far depths of silence
a gull speaks of freedom
photo by Sandra L. Hazley
--- e b bortz
Thursday, June 30, 2005
earth note 13
itasca county, minnesota
blue herons know how to hide in the deep
ice blue canopy over spider lake
cloudless day lifts
works of art
off the water
whisking them past
unflinching black green tamarack
sharp stiff face to the sun
bursting whitecaps cloak a diving loon
crappie chasing frenzy
herons pay no attention
carry on incognito
searching the secret coves mystery schools
wind scattered lily pads floating placenta
borne of white birch
norway pine stewards
quiet mothers of the north
--- e b bortz
blue herons know how to hide in the deep
ice blue canopy over spider lake
cloudless day lifts
works of art
off the water
whisking them past
unflinching black green tamarack
sharp stiff face to the sun
bursting whitecaps cloak a diving loon
crappie chasing frenzy
herons pay no attention
carry on incognito
searching the secret coves mystery schools
wind scattered lily pads floating placenta
borne of white birch
norway pine stewards
quiet mothers of the north
--- e b bortz
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
earth note 57
lake ontario bluffs, toronto
icy water mid july
wakes up
the most comatose among us
human beings weren't considered
in the geology of this land
bold and sharp
we are a part but not a process in itself
our mark must not be
a grease stain
to these cliffs
limestone bodies
aggregate sculptures
pale pristine
formed without our consent
herons blue
white and gray gulls
pick their sanctuary
check our presence
--- e b bortz
icy water mid july
wakes up
the most comatose among us
human beings weren't considered
in the geology of this land
bold and sharp
we are a part but not a process in itself
our mark must not be
a grease stain
to these cliffs
limestone bodies
aggregate sculptures
pale pristine
formed without our consent
herons blue
white and gray gulls
pick their sanctuary
check our presence
--- e b bortz
Monday, June 27, 2005
earth note 26
bahia honda beach, florida keys
pelicans glide just above the water
four beaks in a string
capture
a silent nod in passing
cloudy filter sunrise
purple orange
a pair of turkey buzzards stand on the beach
content
not moving
deep green waves blend
with blue coral patchwork
infinite destinies
striking an arrow straight to shore
up the trunk of a split-open palm tree
flying ants dive for cover
the wind and highway speak foreign tongues
unable to communicate or answer each other's
questions
a thousand grains of sand
rise
blow across my paper
--- e b bortz
pelicans glide just above the water
four beaks in a string
capture
a silent nod in passing
cloudy filter sunrise
purple orange
a pair of turkey buzzards stand on the beach
content
not moving
deep green waves blend
with blue coral patchwork
infinite destinies
striking an arrow straight to shore
up the trunk of a split-open palm tree
flying ants dive for cover
the wind and highway speak foreign tongues
unable to communicate or answer each other's
questions
a thousand grains of sand
rise
blow across my paper
--- e b bortz
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
earth note 56
summer solstice, west park, northside pittsburgh
each blade of green
every carpenter ant
a universe
an injured brown squirrel
hind leg raw
three legs up a wide arm oak
in sight of allegheny general trauma center
a chopper sets down choking on ground level ozone
an air conditioned lexus gets hot under the collar
spits out a horn that leaves excrement
on the pavement
weather beaten faces down at the flea market
barter glances
what do yinz want for that desk lamp
my niece could use it in the fall
when she goes to night school
a tired old man sleeps under a backpack
near the seventh street bridge
the river whines with jet-skis
brown green water dodges
incoming concrete fragments
merchants talk of floods
next spring
--- e b bortz
each blade of green
every carpenter ant
a universe
an injured brown squirrel
hind leg raw
three legs up a wide arm oak
in sight of allegheny general trauma center
a chopper sets down choking on ground level ozone
an air conditioned lexus gets hot under the collar
spits out a horn that leaves excrement
on the pavement
weather beaten faces down at the flea market
barter glances
what do yinz want for that desk lamp
my niece could use it in the fall
when she goes to night school
a tired old man sleeps under a backpack
near the seventh street bridge
the river whines with jet-skis
brown green water dodges
incoming concrete fragments
merchants talk of floods
next spring
--- e b bortz
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
earth note 9
pittsburgh 1996
allegheny flat water canoeing
down through aspinwall, sharpsburg
sheetmetal clad lawrenceville
under black steel railroad bridges
self-fulfilling prophecies roll
from broken corners of concrete
herr's island deep green awakening
drooping willow branches brush the sides
silence broken by a dark leafy channel
faint smells of pickles & ketchup
white ripples in the distance
a coal barge plowing towards us
passes
we turn into the wake
cutting clean but rocky
we shift our weight
smooth with the roll
a buzz in the distance
jet-ski hotdog hammered-up hells angel
draws an S around the ninth street bridge
glass and steel reach out from all sides now
reflected clouds mirror buildings
bicycles and rollerblades shout from three rivers stadium
under the ramp at the science center submarine
a popcorn ball floats near shore
then sinks
down the ohio to the walls of the penitentiary
a gray face looks away
we turn upstream
--- e b bortz
(published in earth notes and other poems, Least Bittern Books, 2015)
allegheny flat water canoeing
down through aspinwall, sharpsburg
sheetmetal clad lawrenceville
under black steel railroad bridges
self-fulfilling prophecies roll
from broken corners of concrete
herr's island deep green awakening
drooping willow branches brush the sides
silence broken by a dark leafy channel
faint smells of pickles & ketchup
white ripples in the distance
a coal barge plowing towards us
passes
we turn into the wake
cutting clean but rocky
we shift our weight
smooth with the roll
a buzz in the distance
jet-ski hotdog hammered-up hells angel
draws an S around the ninth street bridge
glass and steel reach out from all sides now
reflected clouds mirror buildings
bicycles and rollerblades shout from three rivers stadium
under the ramp at the science center submarine
a popcorn ball floats near shore
then sinks
down the ohio to the walls of the penitentiary
a gray face looks away
we turn upstream
--- e b bortz
(published in earth notes and other poems, Least Bittern Books, 2015)
Monday, June 13, 2005
earth note 58
i'm wondering
what it will take
to resuscitate a broken lung
flush fresh air
from california thru the rustbelt
up to the maritime provinces
across the appalachian hollows
open sewers of new jersey
ohio river boilers coughing soot and flyash
our breath smells
of NOx and SOx
particulates rub the last white enamel
from our teeth
collapsing on an ozone action day alert
the body bags wait
--- e b bortz
what it will take
to resuscitate a broken lung
flush fresh air
from california thru the rustbelt
up to the maritime provinces
across the appalachian hollows
open sewers of new jersey
ohio river boilers coughing soot and flyash
our breath smells
of NOx and SOx
particulates rub the last white enamel
from our teeth
collapsing on an ozone action day alert
the body bags wait
--- e b bortz
Sunday, June 12, 2005
earth notes 32 & 2
fineview, pittsburgh
city steps climbing
through scruffy hillside ledges
a broken concrete slice
exposes pebbles
internal smoothness
wild shrubs mask a groundhog hole
hickory buds from a newspaper-draped compost heap
a beer can peeks out from a plastic bag
eyes closed stupor
contorting
all-consuming
imprint malaise
splintered green glass
scattered to the gutter
lost forever to the recycle bins
wandering
over washed down hillsides
displaced wholeness
without form
homeless
broken bits misplaced passion
awakening
and finding itself alone
on a slippery cobbled street
an ancient jagged bottle of tiger rose
not yet empty
keeps a watch
--- e b bortz
city steps climbing
through scruffy hillside ledges
a broken concrete slice
exposes pebbles
internal smoothness
wild shrubs mask a groundhog hole
hickory buds from a newspaper-draped compost heap
a beer can peeks out from a plastic bag
eyes closed stupor
contorting
all-consuming
imprint malaise
splintered green glass
scattered to the gutter
lost forever to the recycle bins
wandering
over washed down hillsides
displaced wholeness
without form
homeless
broken bits misplaced passion
awakening
and finding itself alone
on a slippery cobbled street
an ancient jagged bottle of tiger rose
not yet empty
keeps a watch
--- e b bortz
Friday, June 10, 2005
chongkasem, surat thani thailand
small fan blowing incense in
from a dead-quiet street
sweet grime thai night
paints a hot mist
our naked breasts
rich brown by birth
red brown by sun
a yellow moonlight breaks the shutters
golden quivering thighs
jeweled black hair loose & scattered
in the cream of white sheets and silence
weeping
with the mermaid at songkhla
black coral of lamai
green hills of khao sok
each lip touching
empty tomorrows
you ask me when i'll return and i answer
silence
each heartbeat between us
asks again
what no words can say
we are a soul
ripped in two
soaked
in curry and ginger
sweat and frankincense
a tear rolls
between cheekbones
living our moment before dying
--- e b bortz
from a dead-quiet street
sweet grime thai night
paints a hot mist
our naked breasts
rich brown by birth
red brown by sun
a yellow moonlight breaks the shutters
golden quivering thighs
jeweled black hair loose & scattered
in the cream of white sheets and silence
weeping
with the mermaid at songkhla
black coral of lamai
green hills of khao sok
each lip touching
empty tomorrows
you ask me when i'll return and i answer
silence
each heartbeat between us
asks again
what no words can say
we are a soul
ripped in two
soaked
in curry and ginger
sweat and frankincense
a tear rolls
between cheekbones
living our moment before dying
--- e b bortz
Thursday, June 09, 2005
gulf of thailand
at the tip of green white surf
a splash of shoreline coral blackness
the dance begins near a campfire
first a smoky drumbeat & body
then the strings
chord & discord
deep rich melancholy minor
a crescendo of free people
a soprano rings out without an audience
full moon festival speaks
another world listens
--- e b bortz
a splash of shoreline coral blackness
the dance begins near a campfire
first a smoky drumbeat & body
then the strings
chord & discord
deep rich melancholy minor
a crescendo of free people
a soprano rings out without an audience
full moon festival speaks
another world listens
--- e b bortz
Monday, June 06, 2005
there are only a few things that keep me feeling
wish there were more
sometimes a broken down car on the side of the road
gets me thinking
hood up...up on blocks...missing wheels
inside gutted
like the assault we all suffer
but don’t know it
people in streets
pushed broken
past dark alleys
sullen daylight
polluted concrete overpasses growing by night
this isn’t the america of the partridge family
this empire is a thousand years late
not that empires are ever legitimate
truth
sojourner would never approve
every clearcut i see from the highway
(most clearcuts are well hidden)
is just another violation of the living
is there really a smooth politician
that can bring us out into the new?
will another hundred-year war do it?
the hundred thousand year pit
social conditioning
is sinking
i see the sun
i’m crawling out
--- e b bortz
sometimes a broken down car on the side of the road
gets me thinking
hood up...up on blocks...missing wheels
inside gutted
like the assault we all suffer
but don’t know it
people in streets
pushed broken
past dark alleys
sullen daylight
polluted concrete overpasses growing by night
this isn’t the america of the partridge family
this empire is a thousand years late
not that empires are ever legitimate
truth
sojourner would never approve
every clearcut i see from the highway
(most clearcuts are well hidden)
is just another violation of the living
is there really a smooth politician
that can bring us out into the new?
will another hundred-year war do it?
the hundred thousand year pit
social conditioning
is sinking
i see the sun
i’m crawling out
--- e b bortz
pride and love
like the sun and rain
contending for a safe place
buried restless in empty canyons
or camouflaged deep green in the rubber forests
the road between disjointed
scattered by wind
tears of a river
deep beyond my limits of pretense
knows no safe landing
--- e b bortz
contending for a safe place
buried restless in empty canyons
or camouflaged deep green in the rubber forests
the road between disjointed
scattered by wind
tears of a river
deep beyond my limits of pretense
knows no safe landing
--- e b bortz
Saturday, June 04, 2005
earth note 89
pittsburgh, temperanceville, west end valley
those scraggly hillsides
traversed by coal miners a hundred years ago
the dust never settles
still hearing the old revolutionary songs
before john L put a lid on it all
and those fires beneath the surface
still warming up the roots
of the sycamores and hemlocks
while the women of the earth packed up
another lunch pail for the long winter strike
of desperation
desolation
whatever it should be called
wabash & neptune streets
is probably the spot where william Z
mounted a soapbox and asked the souls
still living to get off their knees and touch
the family tree of redemption
the narcotic of the mine owners that
poisoned the body
needed to be spit up
and out
bringing the boys home from that imperial war
‘to end all wars’
blood lining the pockets of bank foreclosures
the grimy row houses that stood on steuben avenue
full of empty coal cellars
with children gathering coal pieces
along the railroad tracks
coal pieces
their fathers died digging
--- e b bortz
(published in The New People, July/August 2005)
(published in earth notes and other poems, Least Bittern Books, 2015)
those scraggly hillsides
traversed by coal miners a hundred years ago
the dust never settles
still hearing the old revolutionary songs
before john L put a lid on it all
and those fires beneath the surface
still warming up the roots
of the sycamores and hemlocks
while the women of the earth packed up
another lunch pail for the long winter strike
of desperation
desolation
whatever it should be called
wabash & neptune streets
is probably the spot where william Z
mounted a soapbox and asked the souls
still living to get off their knees and touch
the family tree of redemption
the narcotic of the mine owners that
poisoned the body
needed to be spit up
and out
bringing the boys home from that imperial war
‘to end all wars’
blood lining the pockets of bank foreclosures
the grimy row houses that stood on steuben avenue
full of empty coal cellars
with children gathering coal pieces
along the railroad tracks
coal pieces
their fathers died digging
--- e b bortz
(published in The New People, July/August 2005)
(published in earth notes and other poems, Least Bittern Books, 2015)
Thursday, June 02, 2005
earth note 53
juno beach, florida
shell textures like rainbows
purple rust
crevices cratered sandstone
brown gold
grainy smooth
round stone body
heartbeat surf
in white foam thundering chorus
to the sea urchins and seaweed
a last green requiem
--- e b bortz
shell textures like rainbows
purple rust
crevices cratered sandstone
brown gold
grainy smooth
round stone body
heartbeat surf
in white foam thundering chorus
to the sea urchins and seaweed
a last green requiem
--- e b bortz
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
earth note 74
take the politically incorrect
and use it correctly for a change
mankind
the fucker really has plundered
the earth
and most living things
just to get laid
how many women really own
those diamond mines in south africa
that's not to say there aren't a good number
that have bought the illusion
brilliant
propaganda
sorry for being crude
but....so....
when do we wake
the little hellbenders that have survived
the chainsaw
dodging the plutocrats and
republicrats
hiding behind the empty edifice
when will the confused refuse to fight & die?
is there only mill dust in our veins
or can we carry our mothers & fathers
to the river
carve out a new way
up in the hills
in the wild cluster of poplar
squeezing out the black cherry
profiteers
on their knees
breathing in a new moon's night
listening
for a full moon's
echo
--- e b bortz
and use it correctly for a change
mankind
the fucker really has plundered
the earth
and most living things
just to get laid
how many women really own
those diamond mines in south africa
that's not to say there aren't a good number
that have bought the illusion
brilliant
propaganda
sorry for being crude
but....so....
when do we wake
the little hellbenders that have survived
the chainsaw
dodging the plutocrats and
republicrats
hiding behind the empty edifice
when will the confused refuse to fight & die?
is there only mill dust in our veins
or can we carry our mothers & fathers
to the river
carve out a new way
up in the hills
in the wild cluster of poplar
squeezing out the black cherry
profiteers
on their knees
breathing in a new moon's night
listening
for a full moon's
echo
--- e b bortz
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
earth note 52
big pine key, florida
a morning winter star 6am
running
rising fast
red black southeast shadows
coral water lips sealed in secrecy
pelicans gulls turkey buzzards
footbridge squatters
next to highway one
the traffic snarls
growls
an ocean mimics a mirror
meets the sun
--- e b bortz
(published in leastbitternbooks, May 2015)
a morning winter star 6am
running
rising fast
red black southeast shadows
coral water lips sealed in secrecy
pelicans gulls turkey buzzards
footbridge squatters
next to highway one
the traffic snarls
growls
an ocean mimics a mirror
meets the sun
--- e b bortz
(published in leastbitternbooks, May 2015)
Monday, May 30, 2005
hunger road
is the longest distance between two points
beginning and destination
the characters time and experience live in the middle
at intersections or in themselves
the sun and darkness around them
alone
a hazy morning ribbon of asphalt
cuts through the maryland hills
footsteps & meditation down to
the wall in washington
last night's dinner at
hagerstown mcdonald's dumpster
nestled under tartar-sauce-covered
cardboard
half-full coke cups
and then a whole big mac --- a kid's secret from his dad
or maybe a message to us
a greasy road through dusty fields of corn
once forests
corn stripped and milled and stuffed in warehouses
for what? for hungrier times?
torn backpack and sneakers sluggishly moving
down the highway
a big red rig stops and asks if i want a ride to bethesda
as long as i don't smoke
or complain about david allan coe's
underground tape of raw sex songs
i told him i don't smoke
the diesel roars and whines through the hill country
blurting out a tale
of marriage and trucks and betrayal and trucks
windows wide open guitars reverberate
the stench of a backpack breaking free
a hot humid breeze masks the odor
sunny lazy droplets linger
up over the green furry ridge
near the west virginia border
i doze off for moments at a time
instantly forgetting the road
beneath me
instantly dreaming of mango
and rambutan
the bungalows of koh samui thailand
their gold-brown touch
the gentleness of the horizon
on the curb in bethesda
looking for a wendy's
walking all the way to georgetown
chic-town
people and shops stuffed and upscale
off-center
concerned but at a distance
i walk on through and cease to exist
limos buzzing pennsylvania avenue
chrome-covered headlamps with blinders on
a family with shopping bags squatting in the park
an old black man with a basset hound
curled up on a bench
afraid to move in the heat
the next bench over a chess game ducks
as a stream of rollerblades fly by on their lunch break
seagulls cruise the reflecting pool
bare feet dig deep into the grass
clawing scratching earth
black and moist under toenails
earth of life
in the shadows a black wall forever sings
a dirge upon the water
no
three million dirges
a swan wing flutters & weeps
i taste the earth
my hunger lives
--- e b bortz
(published in The Exchange #3, 1995)
beginning and destination
the characters time and experience live in the middle
at intersections or in themselves
the sun and darkness around them
alone
a hazy morning ribbon of asphalt
cuts through the maryland hills
footsteps & meditation down to
the wall in washington
last night's dinner at
hagerstown mcdonald's dumpster
nestled under tartar-sauce-covered
cardboard
half-full coke cups
and then a whole big mac --- a kid's secret from his dad
or maybe a message to us
a greasy road through dusty fields of corn
once forests
corn stripped and milled and stuffed in warehouses
for what? for hungrier times?
torn backpack and sneakers sluggishly moving
down the highway
a big red rig stops and asks if i want a ride to bethesda
as long as i don't smoke
or complain about david allan coe's
underground tape of raw sex songs
i told him i don't smoke
the diesel roars and whines through the hill country
blurting out a tale
of marriage and trucks and betrayal and trucks
windows wide open guitars reverberate
the stench of a backpack breaking free
a hot humid breeze masks the odor
sunny lazy droplets linger
up over the green furry ridge
near the west virginia border
i doze off for moments at a time
instantly forgetting the road
beneath me
instantly dreaming of mango
and rambutan
the bungalows of koh samui thailand
their gold-brown touch
the gentleness of the horizon
on the curb in bethesda
looking for a wendy's
walking all the way to georgetown
chic-town
people and shops stuffed and upscale
off-center
concerned but at a distance
i walk on through and cease to exist
limos buzzing pennsylvania avenue
chrome-covered headlamps with blinders on
a family with shopping bags squatting in the park
an old black man with a basset hound
curled up on a bench
afraid to move in the heat
the next bench over a chess game ducks
as a stream of rollerblades fly by on their lunch break
seagulls cruise the reflecting pool
bare feet dig deep into the grass
clawing scratching earth
black and moist under toenails
earth of life
in the shadows a black wall forever sings
a dirge upon the water
no
three million dirges
a swan wing flutters & weeps
i taste the earth
my hunger lives
--- e b bortz
(published in The Exchange #3, 1995)
earth note 81
steps
mostly one by one
broken patchwork
a rust of defoliated grassland
dustbowl yellow river
where there are no endless roads
'cept time
and we ask the mother
earth god
to heal us
photo by Sandra L. Hazley
--- e b bortz
(published in ArtCrimes #20, 2002)
Sunday, May 29, 2005
earth note 50
public beach, south marco island, florida
a commoner's space
wedged between well preserved
flowing blond heads
reinforced sagging asses
fingers pinched between rocks and gold
out of place high-rise edifice
the calmness and patience of a sheller's lament
lonely women old men sandpipers hop above
light green waves
--- e b bortz
a commoner's space
wedged between well preserved
flowing blond heads
reinforced sagging asses
fingers pinched between rocks and gold
out of place high-rise edifice
the calmness and patience of a sheller's lament
lonely women old men sandpipers hop above
light green waves
--- e b bortz
earth note 49
holmes beach, florida
ancestors of gulf stream seagulls
flying up from key west in the thirties
after losing their balance
on hemingway's fishing sloop
hearing the old man swear
chewing on his pipe stem soaked in bourbon
deciding
better to nestle in the crystal white sands up north
leaving ernest with the troubles of the world
in his eyes
the anticipation and broken dreams of madrid
of barcelona
a swimming pool lined in gold
his fountain pen
dipped in pain
--- e b bortz
ancestors of gulf stream seagulls
flying up from key west in the thirties
after losing their balance
on hemingway's fishing sloop
hearing the old man swear
chewing on his pipe stem soaked in bourbon
deciding
better to nestle in the crystal white sands up north
leaving ernest with the troubles of the world
in his eyes
the anticipation and broken dreams of madrid
of barcelona
a swimming pool lined in gold
his fountain pen
dipped in pain
--- e b bortz
Saturday, May 28, 2005
earth note 11
allegheny, monongahela, ohio rivers
once the haze settles in at the point
thick greasy straight-jacket
lips against the water
fog dance
mist puffing
gun metal knots
blocking all escape routes
i squirm in the relative coolness
of the mud
dream of diving deep beneath the film
or stretching out full in the bottom of a sea-worthy canoe
striking deep into a green horizon
freedom singing
--- e b bortz
once the haze settles in at the point
thick greasy straight-jacket
lips against the water
fog dance
mist puffing
gun metal knots
blocking all escape routes
i squirm in the relative coolness
of the mud
dream of diving deep beneath the film
or stretching out full in the bottom of a sea-worthy canoe
striking deep into a green horizon
freedom singing
--- e b bortz
Friday, May 27, 2005
earth note 36
twelve thousand miles from the
hin lat falls thailand
a sweet rainforest pulls
within me
transposing the henderson street steps
above the allegheny
cool rain pellets melt deep into all my openings
renewal screaming sunrise openings
the difference in taste is hard to distinguish
water with a message of its own
my tongue & legs
laugh out loud
climb the steps
or is it
the falls
a wolf perched on a tee-shirt
sweeps through lush green overhang
clouds of mist
spray & orchids
i breathe the water of lost rainforests
--- e b bortz
hin lat falls thailand
a sweet rainforest pulls
within me
transposing the henderson street steps
above the allegheny
cool rain pellets melt deep into all my openings
renewal screaming sunrise openings
the difference in taste is hard to distinguish
water with a message of its own
my tongue & legs
laugh out loud
climb the steps
or is it
the falls
a wolf perched on a tee-shirt
sweeps through lush green overhang
clouds of mist
spray & orchids
i breathe the water of lost rainforests
--- e b bortz
earth note 79
i kayaked from koh samui thailand
to the san francisco bay and never thought
for a moment that the journey would put an end to me
but that first plate of pad thai
telegraph avenue berkeley
was different
the years came crashing down &
i knew it was close to over
the waitress looked away quick
probably knowing i’d never see the sun
strike the sailboats of sausalito
again
too weak
love inside out
the icy summer wind off the bay wasn’t cold enough
to shake me free from those dark valleys
self-pity
deception
out there way too long without
as much as a plan
there would be no redemption
only shadows
a restless life
a world running away
from everything that was meaningful
liberation
but a dream of foolish lovers
--- e b bortz
(published in Jawbone 2001)
to the san francisco bay and never thought
for a moment that the journey would put an end to me
but that first plate of pad thai
telegraph avenue berkeley
was different
the years came crashing down &
i knew it was close to over
the waitress looked away quick
probably knowing i’d never see the sun
strike the sailboats of sausalito
again
too weak
love inside out
the icy summer wind off the bay wasn’t cold enough
to shake me free from those dark valleys
self-pity
deception
out there way too long without
as much as a plan
there would be no redemption
only shadows
a restless life
a world running away
from everything that was meaningful
liberation
but a dream of foolish lovers
--- e b bortz
(published in Jawbone 2001)
Thursday, May 26, 2005
transition
she caught me from the corner of her eye
running along side the running board
indecisive
a wobbly motion up to the board
my other leg left dangling
half-planting canvas holes
on a morning roadbed
lush rows of mangos, oranges, olives
ears of corn, yellow aspen, norway pine
converging
disjointed continents inching in
a magnetic pool of long lost fields
dormant dreams
a dozen pockets of the living
surrounding
nearly touching the asphalt abscess
underground gridwork
concrete network
a late summer rain steams an open field of clover
cutting the tail of a southeast sunrise
i find no reason
not to complete the leap
sundrops rinsing soot and road dust
inside a deep sweet breath washes me thorough
hesitantly springing forward
a wet oily muscle unravels
a hand reaches out
hungry
--- e b bortz
(thailand, korea, israel, minnesota, arizona,
california, cleveland, pittsburgh)
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
earth note 75
a motion unrelated but connected
to that lost poem
just below the surface
beginning to sound like typical
writer's block
words without a window
or an opening in the wall but no sunrise
i pick up the only elements alive
from the bottom of my shoes
petitions and sidewalks
we beat the drum ‘til morning
drinking in a cold rain
hopefully a beginning
of vision
--- e b bortz
to that lost poem
just below the surface
beginning to sound like typical
writer's block
words without a window
or an opening in the wall but no sunrise
i pick up the only elements alive
from the bottom of my shoes
petitions and sidewalks
we beat the drum ‘til morning
drinking in a cold rain
hopefully a beginning
of vision
--- e b bortz
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
liberty avenue pittsburgh 2003
that musty old army-navy store
flags a still-life in the window
sitting right across from a dee-funct
fire-escaped old hotel
strange and uncommon
with my father’s dub-bu-yu dub-bu-yu two
or those who died alone
some blowing out their own brains
widows mothers vietnam to iraq
to america
wonder
why the kids still play
in camouflage
--- e b bortz
flags a still-life in the window
sitting right across from a dee-funct
fire-escaped old hotel
strange and uncommon
with my father’s dub-bu-yu dub-bu-yu two
or those who died alone
some blowing out their own brains
widows mothers vietnam to iraq
to america
wonder
why the kids still play
in camouflage
--- e b bortz
Monday, May 23, 2005
earth note 68
heard on the news the other day
there was a concrete shortage
because we've been so
fucking busy
paving the earth
and on an ozone action day alert
to boot
115 degree temperatures in texas
floods in tennessee
parched forests to feed florida's wildfires
(we drained the wetlands, remember?)
where have
all
the flowers
gone
grow them in your basement
you may want to eat them
--- e b bortz
(published in Whiskey Island #42, 2000)
(published in earth notes and other poems, Least Bittern Books, 2015)
there was a concrete shortage
because we've been so
fucking busy
paving the earth
and on an ozone action day alert
to boot
115 degree temperatures in texas
floods in tennessee
parched forests to feed florida's wildfires
(we drained the wetlands, remember?)
where have
all
the flowers
gone
grow them in your basement
you may want to eat them
--- e b bortz
(published in Whiskey Island #42, 2000)
(published in earth notes and other poems, Least Bittern Books, 2015)
earth note 60
monongahela river
twenty geese mostly white
some blended gray
run the shoreline
three pairs of mallards
plus an odd male left out
twisting his deep green collar
polished like a loner's vanity
a cagey squirrel closes his eyes
throws his head back
maybe a shot of high test
brown river
bubbly wake
rushing out the rear of a jet-ski slasher
splitting the water with the rage of a sawmill
a malamute's wild barking protest
is swallowed below the shrill
a willow weeps
echoes
--- e b bortz
twenty geese mostly white
some blended gray
run the shoreline
three pairs of mallards
plus an odd male left out
twisting his deep green collar
polished like a loner's vanity
a cagey squirrel closes his eyes
throws his head back
maybe a shot of high test
brown river
bubbly wake
rushing out the rear of a jet-ski slasher
splitting the water with the rage of a sawmill
a malamute's wild barking protest
is swallowed below the shrill
a willow weeps
echoes
--- e b bortz
Saturday, May 21, 2005
earth note 12
my bicycle is my picket sign
wheels ranting past smog-stained
parking garages cluttering up the riverfront
green space movement looking for partisans
green guerrilla walkers
joggers runners rollerbladers
wheelchair-rollers skateboarders
rowers kayakers canoeists
bicyclists
of the world unite
we have nothing to lose
but our
cellulite
an intravenous high-octane-sucking
disorder
occupy life
---- e b bortz
(published in Suburban Wasteland #4, 1997)
wheels ranting past smog-stained
parking garages cluttering up the riverfront
green space movement looking for partisans
green guerrilla walkers
joggers runners rollerbladers
wheelchair-rollers skateboarders
rowers kayakers canoeists
bicyclists
of the world unite
we have nothing to lose
but our
cellulite
an intravenous high-octane-sucking
disorder
occupy life
---- e b bortz
(published in Suburban Wasteland #4, 1997)
Friday, May 20, 2005
all the news that's fit to dream
1998
i had a strange dream last night
that the self-perpetuating federal bureaucracy,
the so-called independent counselor's office, and all the lawyers
for monica lewinsky, linda tripp, bill clinton, republican and democratic party hacks involved in scandals, plus a cast of thousands --- were methodically inching toward the abyss, self-destructing into a deep black hole --- while us ordinary citizens were just standing around, talking about el nino and global warming and all the other things we usually talk about --- not really caring much for what those good ol' boys and girls were doing to each other. they'd been doing it to us too, so it just looked as if the chickens had come home to roost. trent lott and newt gingrich were in there too, their shrill rising above the fray, more than likely watching out for their own asses, slamming their closet doors tight to keep all those media types in the dark, who won't be deterred anyway. they simply sniff out the money, follow the scent better than a basset hound in the bush...update 2005: at least they should.
and just as the first sun crept into my eyelids and everyone was about to tumble over the edge, chelsea clinton comes roaring in from california on a black and white appaloosa, screaming out the sunflower sutra by allen ginsberg and the art of loving by erich fromm with an all-star chorus that included jerry garcia and janis joplin. see, chelsea just couldn't let those gucci men and women slip away without hearing the truth as she saw it ... that this world was just too important and too beautiful to be reduced to a lot of noise ... desperate human egos.
--- e b bortz
i had a strange dream last night
that the self-perpetuating federal bureaucracy,
the so-called independent counselor's office, and all the lawyers
for monica lewinsky, linda tripp, bill clinton, republican and democratic party hacks involved in scandals, plus a cast of thousands --- were methodically inching toward the abyss, self-destructing into a deep black hole --- while us ordinary citizens were just standing around, talking about el nino and global warming and all the other things we usually talk about --- not really caring much for what those good ol' boys and girls were doing to each other. they'd been doing it to us too, so it just looked as if the chickens had come home to roost. trent lott and newt gingrich were in there too, their shrill rising above the fray, more than likely watching out for their own asses, slamming their closet doors tight to keep all those media types in the dark, who won't be deterred anyway. they simply sniff out the money, follow the scent better than a basset hound in the bush...update 2005: at least they should.
and just as the first sun crept into my eyelids and everyone was about to tumble over the edge, chelsea clinton comes roaring in from california on a black and white appaloosa, screaming out the sunflower sutra by allen ginsberg and the art of loving by erich fromm with an all-star chorus that included jerry garcia and janis joplin. see, chelsea just couldn't let those gucci men and women slip away without hearing the truth as she saw it ... that this world was just too important and too beautiful to be reduced to a lot of noise ... desperate human egos.
--- e b bortz
Thursday, May 19, 2005
earth note 51
key west 1997
a bitter wind in january
mangled mango trees
mangroves
goatskin wine sacks
crusty sand dipped ponytails
some broken down huffys with coaster brakes
whine up duval street
stop paranoid on their way to the green parrot
elbow to elbow motion manic
a blast of northeast chill raises goose-bumps
while the cruise ship plunderers
.....escape running
.....to the pier
and the regulars unravel their gods
for yet another sundown celebration
a german girl innocently asks for directions
and what time the festival begins
i manage a distant smile
.....an orange space along the horizon
--- e b bortz
a bitter wind in january
mangled mango trees
mangroves
goatskin wine sacks
crusty sand dipped ponytails
some broken down huffys with coaster brakes
whine up duval street
stop paranoid on their way to the green parrot
elbow to elbow motion manic
a blast of northeast chill raises goose-bumps
while the cruise ship plunderers
.....escape running
.....to the pier
and the regulars unravel their gods
for yet another sundown celebration
a german girl innocently asks for directions
and what time the festival begins
i manage a distant smile
.....an orange space along the horizon
--- e b bortz
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
death
for drunken drivers
death to kaczynski
death for mcveigh
death for texans africans iraqis
death to kaczynski
death for mcveigh
death for texans africans iraqis
jews & palestinians
death to the wolves
death to the workers
death for the ojibwa cheyenne apache arapaho sioux
shell oil death for ken saro-wiwa
death for sacco and vanzetti
joe hill
jonny gammage at the hands of police
mumia abu-jamal locked in ten thousand death rows
death to the wolves
death to the workers
death for the ojibwa cheyenne apache arapaho sioux
shell oil death for ken saro-wiwa
death for sacco and vanzetti
joe hill
jonny gammage at the hands of police
mumia abu-jamal locked in ten thousand death rows
death is what we teach our children
cyber comic superhero dragon slayer
death is a television
death is the road we are paving with crushed roses
fallen sugar maples
death is in our music
our rivers forests sky weep in
death is our decision
our history our delusion
our reckoning
death to the poets
--- e b bortz
(an earlier version published in The Exchange #8, 1999)
cyber comic superhero dragon slayer
death is a television
death is the road we are paving with crushed roses
fallen sugar maples
death is in our music
our rivers forests sky weep in
death is our decision
our history our delusion
our reckoning
death to the poets
--- e b bortz
(an earlier version published in The Exchange #8, 1999)
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
earth note 83
fineview, pittsburgh
black cat steps greenway
wraps the hilltop to the flats
sticks the shade up a cool edge
crow eyes
anxious dark & glassy
a sandal slips
groundhog lumbers
freight train
drowsy breeze
limp on thru
--- e b bortz
black cat steps greenway
wraps the hilltop to the flats
sticks the shade up a cool edge
crow eyes
anxious dark & glassy
a sandal slips
groundhog lumbers
freight train
drowsy breeze
limp on thru
--- e b bortz
Monday, May 16, 2005
9th street bridge jogger
pittsburgh
yellow shorts
yellow top
yellow hair windswept sun
like a shroud around a steel i-beam (yellow)
my words gray and rigid are cobblestones
artificially imposed between concrete slabs
catch them being pushed from the trail
breaking loose
down to the river
stones & years slip
disappear
--- e b bortz
yellow shorts
yellow top
yellow hair windswept sun
like a shroud around a steel i-beam (yellow)
my words gray and rigid are cobblestones
artificially imposed between concrete slabs
catch them being pushed from the trail
breaking loose
down to the river
stones & years slip
disappear
--- e b bortz
earth note 23
notes dancing off steel rails
singing out early morning blackness
wheels of an eastbound slowing down to a crawl
a gentle curve
an iron bridge twists and rolls
a restless allegheny
then silence
dawn still a dream away
waiting listening for another song
there are none
only eyes in a cold steel corridor
from an inner distance a vision of waterfalls
small cool pools
tropical wood
a sweet haze of rainforest rich droplets
grab my skin
hiking toward the falls
rushing water rendezvous
the pools gather in intervals
splashing bronze arms
hand prisms of sunlight
through coconut leaves
finding deep brown eyes
a living connection
a dream of desert wind and sandstone
piercing bayonet dust squalls
against the asphalt
a road parched but not lifeless
bedouin canyons and water holes
ragged goats gnarled-hair camels
a misplaced land rover
a sun with vengeance
burning clean my remains of pretense
--- e b bortz
singing out early morning blackness
wheels of an eastbound slowing down to a crawl
a gentle curve
an iron bridge twists and rolls
a restless allegheny
then silence
dawn still a dream away
waiting listening for another song
there are none
only eyes in a cold steel corridor
from an inner distance a vision of waterfalls
small cool pools
tropical wood
a sweet haze of rainforest rich droplets
grab my skin
hiking toward the falls
rushing water rendezvous
the pools gather in intervals
splashing bronze arms
hand prisms of sunlight
through coconut leaves
finding deep brown eyes
a living connection
a dream of desert wind and sandstone
piercing bayonet dust squalls
against the asphalt
a road parched but not lifeless
bedouin canyons and water holes
ragged goats gnarled-hair camels
a misplaced land rover
a sun with vengeance
burning clean my remains of pretense
--- e b bortz
Saturday, May 14, 2005
earth note 85
youghiogheny river trail
there’s a primeval crashing
of whitecaps along the trail
syncopated thunder lighting
a dark eerie precursor to sundown
rain beating through every porous
rain-jacket opening
a rude cold awakening
bike tires looking for a hard surface to roll on
never thought of myself as a religious person
but it seems like some pagan god
is watching
maybe speaking
i’ve covered this trail many times before
it felt different...like morning not evening
there were times i went on endlessly
half-dreaming...warm beaches 12000 miles away
every songbird
like a personal message
this time i hear kerouac’s desolation angels
a far-off peak...no comfort in these thoughts
jack died in his bottle...stealing his warmth
through our fingertips holding the page
now beaten into a cold rain
there’s a heavy canopy of trees
shielding off the strongest of the downpour
a crack of white lighting speaks with power
and directness for anyone listening
the river divides into boulders
swirling pools
a chute that drops four feet and races
mad as a street poet in chelsea
there were times i saw this river low & limp
warmly sleeping in the moss
but now
i’m afraid of stopping
better to just lean into a wet wind
until it passes
new clouds of darkness are rolling up
from the north...i see it in the gap on my left
a wash of water cleans out a nest of fallen dead leaves
a rock dislodges
gets buried in confusion
chipmunks have stopped crossing the trail
--- e b bortz
there’s a primeval crashing
of whitecaps along the trail
syncopated thunder lighting
a dark eerie precursor to sundown
rain beating through every porous
rain-jacket opening
a rude cold awakening
bike tires looking for a hard surface to roll on
never thought of myself as a religious person
but it seems like some pagan god
is watching
maybe speaking
i’ve covered this trail many times before
it felt different...like morning not evening
there were times i went on endlessly
half-dreaming...warm beaches 12000 miles away
every songbird
like a personal message
this time i hear kerouac’s desolation angels
a far-off peak...no comfort in these thoughts
jack died in his bottle...stealing his warmth
through our fingertips holding the page
now beaten into a cold rain
there’s a heavy canopy of trees
shielding off the strongest of the downpour
a crack of white lighting speaks with power
and directness for anyone listening
the river divides into boulders
swirling pools
a chute that drops four feet and races
mad as a street poet in chelsea
there were times i saw this river low & limp
warmly sleeping in the moss
but now
i’m afraid of stopping
better to just lean into a wet wind
until it passes
new clouds of darkness are rolling up
from the north...i see it in the gap on my left
a wash of water cleans out a nest of fallen dead leaves
a rock dislodges
gets buried in confusion
chipmunks have stopped crossing the trail
--- e b bortz
Friday, May 13, 2005
earth note 40
on reading adam brodsky's no body
in cedarvale park toronto
there's a secret in my ear
pulling it out
it speaks
sunshine volumes green rye grass
sienna indian
peacock turban
sky
another blue turban
cocker spaniels and petunias
a violet wide-brimmed hat
over pink tennis shoes
all three feet head to toe
some stray seagulls off lake ontario labor day shopping
join the upward mobile bohemians
maple leaves sucking in their body fluid still intact
sycamore giving up their dead in a flash of yellow
a crow screams above a father's patience
wheels without training wheels unleash the sod
bicycles scatter in-path sparrows
animated black & white 60ish women walk hand in hand
teaching justice
silver and turquoise subliminal messages
bounce off sandra's ear
a crutch falls
a tear dries
--- e b bortz
in cedarvale park toronto
there's a secret in my ear
pulling it out
it speaks
sunshine volumes green rye grass
sienna indian
peacock turban
sky
another blue turban
cocker spaniels and petunias
a violet wide-brimmed hat
over pink tennis shoes
all three feet head to toe
some stray seagulls off lake ontario labor day shopping
join the upward mobile bohemians
maple leaves sucking in their body fluid still intact
sycamore giving up their dead in a flash of yellow
a crow screams above a father's patience
wheels without training wheels unleash the sod
bicycles scatter in-path sparrows
animated black & white 60ish women walk hand in hand
teaching justice
silver and turquoise subliminal messages
bounce off sandra's ear
a crutch falls
a tear dries
--- e b bortz
earth note 76
election 2000 blues
i wish i could throw enough
of a guilt trip
on those liberals
to get a few million
more votes for ralph nader & winona laduke
guess it's the jewish mother in me calling
or maybe my jewish mother
since passed
but i don't think it’ll happen
they keep looking at their stock portfolios
with their heads
so far up their asses they may never see
daylight again
thinking it's all safe in the hands of mr smooth
algore-joelieberman-nafta-gatt-worldorder
think again
you know in your gut that it will
all
eventually
break
or just die of thirst
and we'll wish we had spent more time
talking with that other
50%
who haven't yet
bothered to vote
--- e b bortz
i wish i could throw enough
of a guilt trip
on those liberals
to get a few million
more votes for ralph nader & winona laduke
guess it's the jewish mother in me calling
or maybe my jewish mother
since passed
but i don't think it’ll happen
they keep looking at their stock portfolios
with their heads
so far up their asses they may never see
daylight again
thinking it's all safe in the hands of mr smooth
algore-joelieberman-nafta-gatt-worldorder
think again
you know in your gut that it will
all
eventually
break
or just die of thirst
and we'll wish we had spent more time
talking with that other
50%
who haven't yet
bothered to vote
--- e b bortz
pre-gentrified mexican war street blues, pittsburgh
columbia place: an alleyway packed with narrow row
houses behind buena vista street
on the central northside
out your door to meet the steps
that meet the sidewalk
that meet the street
before the door swings closed
behind you
hot summer nights on the stoops listening to the
blue moon doo-wap of the marcels
from our neighborhood
making it big-time
rings of cigarette smoke and cool talk
bouncing up and down the brick walls
slow sweaty hands of passion
inching along
under thighs
into flashes of newfound sensitivity
scrappy sunday afternoon pickup football on
monument hill
another lesson in hard dirt defeat
like the horace mann dirt field the previous week
and the oily hard dirt field at oliver the week
before that
the grassy fields
were all in the suburbs
and the suburbs brought us do-gooders
of all kinds
complete with work camp projects
and beatles records
and ideas
but then kennedy, chaney, schwerner, and goodman
were murdered
and the war came
songs of dissonance zig-zagged
right up columbia place
pushed each of us
up against the wall
to take a stand
no compromise
polemics in creative writing thank you s.m.
gandhi and dylan
til morning
ideas whose time had come
thumbing down the turnpike
to washington square
in dirty white jeans and sandals
freewheels impatient
in love
and a long way down the highway
death notices from the war appeared regularly
in the newspapers
familiar names
classmates
guys from monument hill
and columbia place
it was no time to run or hide
time to follow your conscience
to danang
or to face it head-on and say
hell-no
--- e b bortz
(published in Voices of a Wanderer, 1993)
houses behind buena vista street
on the central northside
out your door to meet the steps
that meet the sidewalk
that meet the street
before the door swings closed
behind you
hot summer nights on the stoops listening to the
blue moon doo-wap of the marcels
from our neighborhood
making it big-time
rings of cigarette smoke and cool talk
bouncing up and down the brick walls
slow sweaty hands of passion
inching along
under thighs
into flashes of newfound sensitivity
scrappy sunday afternoon pickup football on
monument hill
another lesson in hard dirt defeat
like the horace mann dirt field the previous week
and the oily hard dirt field at oliver the week
before that
the grassy fields
were all in the suburbs
and the suburbs brought us do-gooders
of all kinds
complete with work camp projects
and beatles records
and ideas
but then kennedy, chaney, schwerner, and goodman
were murdered
and the war came
songs of dissonance zig-zagged
right up columbia place
pushed each of us
up against the wall
to take a stand
no compromise
polemics in creative writing thank you s.m.
gandhi and dylan
til morning
ideas whose time had come
thumbing down the turnpike
to washington square
in dirty white jeans and sandals
freewheels impatient
in love
and a long way down the highway
death notices from the war appeared regularly
in the newspapers
familiar names
classmates
guys from monument hill
and columbia place
it was no time to run or hide
time to follow your conscience
to danang
or to face it head-on and say
hell-no
--- e b bortz
(published in Voices of a Wanderer, 1993)
Thursday, May 12, 2005
earth note 34
snowshoe, pennsylvania
treetop skyline
slate background
bare maple branches
fine etched thin brushes
tickling fog laden breasts
a sun spot chilled and buried
a raven picks and dodges
at the side of the road
a highway with blinders turns away
--- e b bortz
treetop skyline
slate background
bare maple branches
fine etched thin brushes
tickling fog laden breasts
a sun spot chilled and buried
a raven picks and dodges
at the side of the road
a highway with blinders turns away
--- e b bortz
noodles
an unusual place richlands virginia
to be chewing on chicken lo mein
slightly askew wooden chopsticks
scooping squeezing curling
the moist loose noodles
scattered over our wet plates
right from the dishwasher
to the stack at the end of the buffet
we take our turn and fill up
with the sweet and sour options
before us
choices we each make
looking into each other’s eyes
without judgment
as slippery loops
passing between puckered lips
warm our insides
--- e b bortz
(published in Voices of a Wanderer, 1993)
to be chewing on chicken lo mein
slightly askew wooden chopsticks
scooping squeezing curling
the moist loose noodles
scattered over our wet plates
right from the dishwasher
to the stack at the end of the buffet
we take our turn and fill up
with the sweet and sour options
before us
choices we each make
looking into each other’s eyes
without judgment
as slippery loops
passing between puckered lips
warm our insides
--- e b bortz
(published in Voices of a Wanderer, 1993)
tracks
silence deadened the last sparks between us
the words crushed and stalled in my throat
emptiness across my chest
exposing the organs
you said
things have changed we don't touch in the same way
(better poets have said
the only constant in life
is change
the sun doesn't rise or set the same way
every day
this is our world)
your hands were warm as they stroked my neck
as i lay limp
drained and alone
was your touch true or was it just
a motion
a gesture to my bleeding
(to this day i don't know)
my reciprocation failed
where was my energy
where was the heat of the negev
the loveburn of yesterday
was this your way out
was it my way out?
we had a last warm kiss
on a frozen river in laval
eyes bright brown
in the ice white wind
the sun jousting but then bending the ice fog
eastward
deep into the pine covered riverbank shoulders
the shadows of your skates masking deep straight cracks
in the new fallen snowdust
of my silence
--- e b bortz
(Montreal, January 1992)
the words crushed and stalled in my throat
emptiness across my chest
exposing the organs
you said
things have changed we don't touch in the same way
(better poets have said
the only constant in life
is change
the sun doesn't rise or set the same way
every day
this is our world)
your hands were warm as they stroked my neck
as i lay limp
drained and alone
was your touch true or was it just
a motion
a gesture to my bleeding
(to this day i don't know)
my reciprocation failed
where was my energy
where was the heat of the negev
the loveburn of yesterday
was this your way out
was it my way out?
we had a last warm kiss
on a frozen river in laval
eyes bright brown
in the ice white wind
the sun jousting but then bending the ice fog
eastward
deep into the pine covered riverbank shoulders
the shadows of your skates masking deep straight cracks
in the new fallen snowdust
of my silence
--- e b bortz
(Montreal, January 1992)
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
america who do we have a blood pact with?
april 2003
protesters fall in fallujah mosul baghdad
is it still a majority of americans
who smirk that rebel yell?
17 dead 10 dead a hundred wounded
white house lies...no challenge
how many in congress & the media
even give a shit?
(the best complicity money can buy)
on september 11th as we were all crowded around
the televisions in the office...not long after the second plane
hit the world trade center...a co-worker i previously had some
respect for...said we needed to nuke somebody...burn them all...
he said it clearly...no hesitation...no prompting
his own pain? twisted sense of making someone
anyone
pay?
humans are slaves to vengeance
hate admitting they are wrong
able to waste
planets
do we refuse to end it here?
your pulse slipping out the door?
love nonviolence self-reflection
antidote sanity potion
non-compliant patriots
look up from the bottom of the well
sing your praise
to the sky
--- e b bortz
protesters fall in fallujah mosul baghdad
is it still a majority of americans
who smirk that rebel yell?
17 dead 10 dead a hundred wounded
white house lies...no challenge
how many in congress & the media
even give a shit?
(the best complicity money can buy)
on september 11th as we were all crowded around
the televisions in the office...not long after the second plane
hit the world trade center...a co-worker i previously had some
respect for...said we needed to nuke somebody...burn them all...
he said it clearly...no hesitation...no prompting
his own pain? twisted sense of making someone
anyone
pay?
humans are slaves to vengeance
hate admitting they are wrong
able to waste
planets
do we refuse to end it here?
your pulse slipping out the door?
love nonviolence self-reflection
antidote sanity potion
non-compliant patriots
look up from the bottom of the well
sing your praise
to the sky
--- e b bortz
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
