even a fifteen day fast

against war
with another eleven days
to go
couldn’t shake the frat boys
into anything close to
what’s beyond their next beer

but some were reached
like a weepy eyed grandmother
some veterans
a whole lotta
deep hippies
deep green
deep believers
a new counterculture revolution
earth goddess gaia
to jesusmohammedmoses

we stand
with the fasters
not fasting ourselves
a military recruiter
gazes away quick
maybe thinking why
they’re still here
trucks & buses spit
unburned diesel
over crowded streets
emerging & broken dreams
the here & now
is the message
don’t wanna
even visualize
a resurrection

--- e b bortz

(published in The New People, Nov 2007)

Alternative September 11th

Of course, there are Republican and Democratic politicians who abuse
the memory of those who died on Sept 11th for their own agendas of
war, empire, and vengeance.

Of course, there are Republican and Democratic politicians
who use the climate of repression to further repress...breaking up
immigrant families with brutal detentions and deportations. It’s hard to
determine who screams the loudest for the watchtowers and walls
along the Mexican border.

Of course, there are Republican and Democratic politicians who whine
in panic about the shortfall of military recruitment...they lament
the ‘good old days’ of an endless reservoir of human beings...cannon fodder
for the death machines provided by military conscription.
No Draft...No Way!

Of course, there are the real power brokers of Republican and Democratic
administrations...the war machinery and weapons manufacturers,
the military base builders, the fossil and nuclear energy corporations,
the sicko health industry and pharmaceutical lobbyists that block
national single-payer healthcare, the forest plunderers and mall developers...
these are but a few of the corporate paymasters masquerading
as political contributors.

And then, there is us...who remember those who died on Sept 11th
by rededicating ourselves to a just, peaceful, and sustainable world
by demilitarizing and democratizing our own society. On this and on
all future Sept 11ths, war-makers will shrill at the wind...
but WE must build community.

--- e b bortz
Sept 11, 2007
Forbes Avenue, Pittsburgh

questions from a cold rain

have we created a darkness
of no return
convinced ourselves
that everything remaining
is the embodiment of light?

when my thumbs cover
my eardrums
does the pounding stop
or has it just moved over
two blocks?

what constitutes a beginning
if all deeds become
unaccountable apparitions
shadows replace what was once
sight

kiss the rain

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, May 18, 2011)

recovering notes from the deep, part 2

when the iron ore strike began
in august 1977
i suddenly felt
a huge decompression
a liberation coming
i was out with thousands
from northern minnesota
& michigan upper peninsula
no more
swing shifts
4 a.m. getups
radio calls
for electrical troubleshooting

my kids began talking to me more
throwing the ball around
we grew

and as the picket duties
lapsed into the fall
i dusted off an old underwood typewriter
and began recalling
and observing
maybe for the first time
what was around me
or had been dormant
for years

i saw the hay fields
go to seed
and the ground freeze up
a movement of canada geese
with better formation
than our picket line

the quiet of the north woods
broke through
watching a snowshoe rabbit
run for cover
frost covering the tamarack
on frozen wet lands

still
i thought back
on the decade before
on the streets of chicago in ‘68
the un-democratic party convention
refusing induction into the u.s. army
the slippery cobblestones
from pittsburgh’s north side
and all the teenage heartbreak
jive five
still ringing from those back alleys

the alberta clippers came
my chainsaw worked overtime
to grow the wood pile
it was either that
or no heat

everything became retrospective
the new age hadn’t
emerged
and this strike was becoming
more defensive
than anything else
trying to keep up with the cost-of-living
we stayed out four months
and if nothing else
won respect

the words beaten out
on that underwood
somehow got misplaced & lost
there were some sleepless nights over that

but i guess i’ll just move on
& make up
what i don’t remember

--- e b bortz
(published in The New People, Nov 2007)

earth note 107

the climate change movement musicians
closed up their cases and went home
or back on the road
some of the reunited bands stayed together
others went separately

and then everyone listened
for the groundswell
that has yet
to come

of course that’s the problem
waiting
for what your neighbor might do
for what so-and-so politician
might do
the paid-for will only go
so far
the paid-for have agendas
to keep them
paid-for

but you already know this
from the many times
you
pledged allegiance
without reciprocation

selling comfort zone
crash insurance
has its limits

where is our sweat
in the receding flood waters?

--- e b bortz

aren't we all brothers & sisters?

lifetime
fleeting moment
what’s a legacy?
what will be passed on?
last tree on the plain
cared enough to even think about it
when will we wake up?
is there a tomorrow in today?
compromises make empty promises
in every death
there must be life

--- e b bortz

pain begins

when there’s recognition
those still anesthetized
sleep thru the alarms

for the conscious ones
a nation’s self-respect
must be reborn from love
by those willing to walk
lonely hollows
back street dumpsters
death bed confessions

let
the anointed ones scramble

--- e b bortz

earth note 106

april 1989

93 degrees 93 percent humidity
bannasan
suratthani province thailand
raises a mountain cliff
of clouds & rainbows
equator rock tear leaving
a few nerves upended
just after ditching my bicycle
at the base
to get a better view

a spontaneous jolt
to even go there
that sunday
hot-under-the-collar road
down from the stalls & markets
of suratthani city
rolling past sweet coconut
smell
of a sun steeped in orange blaze
a couple of tuk-tuks sped out around me
a field of farmers hold their scythes
in resignation

avoiding the straight-up rock face
cathedral without priests
i soak with the rainforest
of miniature buddhas

--- e b bortz

kayak dragon boat adam

plays the china card
allegheny rigor mortis of history
will ignite tomorrow’s blue haze
a story awaits a muse

let sumac & grass
sprout in rusted hulls
of old coal barges
as we cut the wake
on a distant point
see crumbling pilings
abandoned fuel tanks
speak haiku morning
visualize
yet another dawn

--- e b bortz

gross power disparity

take your pick
war
poverty
injustice
pollution
media
elections

corporate hegemony
or
grassroots democracy control
forget dem/repub focus groups
greenwashy middle ground

a thousand shoulders
move the boulders

--- e b bortz

dust covered layer

blinds the face of a transparent backpack
a nosy (nebby) officer
gives it the once over
there’s nothing for you here
don’t wipe it clean
just some personal stuff
best kept hidden
stowed but not forgotten
beneath desolation angels
a place on earth
who would of ever thought
anything close to exposure
would come
years after
the dust settled

--- e b bortz

sometimes silence can be the best poetry

like the space between the stanza
don't bite your fingernails
let the words grow under them
first
speak everything into an inner ear
floppy tongues can make
dull bedfellows

--- e b bortz

(published in The City Poetry, issue 20, Sept 2007)

neoliberal prescription

for war is not
no war
but conscription
coerce the misery
a whole generation adrift
they say
waits to be steeled
they say

(bullshit...inequality has/will always be a prerequisite)

those who speak for a draft
lack the conscience
to resist one

tanks will starve
hollowing out an ancient legion
of empty uniforms
empire hucksters
conformity
vengeance idolatry
just war flimflam
death tricksters

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, April 4, 2013)

earth note 104

joseph city, arizona, 1979

from the water tower
it’s a short hike to a dried out
ancient little colorado
even the omnipresent
flyash tailings pond
hissing at the wind
bullying it off its natural course
can’t muffle the original pueblo spirits
protectors of the canyons
stringing north to the grand one
thru rock like windows
perception is all in the
keepers of the vision

--- e b bortz

iraq vigil/dirge

in front of a congressman’s office
the comfort of an empty cold rain
is at least honest
as the “ayes” have it
another paymaster 100 billion
for death rows iraq
& occupier embassy
walls
boots
choppers
build a monolith
of broken flesh

--- e b bortz

poetry without walls 2007

poster by

Adam Brodsky

any poet that says

there wasn’t one written
way back
that needs to be disowned
is probably in some kind of
protected witness program
like incognitos anonymous
redundancy
for shitty writing

i looked one over this morning
head was still clear
wondered how
a recall might be advertised
anonymously

--- e b bortz

your armchair activism

has lost its stuffing
nothing left to soften the real
yet we look everyday
self-reflection
words of sages
distorted but still cognitive
a broken mirror can be a message
in itself

--- e b bortz

a speech

the other night
by a president
carpet-bombed guernica
again

we mute the sound
let the children
sleep
bach bourree segovia

--- e b bortz

rage of the poetry critic

predictable
as shit-laden stallion hoof beats
pound white
like empire gentry

and the words coming
from the margins
kept marginalized
concrete this
cut-up that
who really knows
the origin of the beat
the sound
wasting away
a gutter’s rag
can be honorable
infidel labor

--- e b bortz

my eyelids

slamming shut
never stopped me
from writing a poem
fact is
maybe it could help
focus
someone said my driving
might improve also
haven’t tried it
yet
traffic is a lot noisier
when your eyes are closed
just heard a dog yelp out the back window
not my dog
his paws are scratching the floor
behind me
this might be good therapy
for politicians & generals
close your eyes
shut the fuck up
& listen

--- e b bortz

earth note 103

the snow was still white
on the fifteen year photo
from the laurentides
the brightest day
of that year
covered your face
with doubt
& wonder

--- e b bortz

(published in split w*sky, December 2006)
(published in Trumpet Call, Green Panda Press, 2012)

Green Roots & Harrisburg Blues

Titus North
(photo by Sandy Hazley)




Green Roots & Harrisburg Blues

(Published in The New People, Pittsburgh, PA, December 2006)

by e b bortz


You know when you’re in the middle of one of those indelible segments in your life...the kind that will twist around and transform the emotional and logical sides of your internal processes. Social change, politics in the broadest sense of the word, is often the tumultuous vehicle that delivers that impact.

This year, as has been the case since 1996, Green Party activists in the Pittsburgh area and across Pennsylvania hit the streets in early March petitioning to place Green candidates on the ballot for the November election. We had no illusions about the task at hand. To place our candidates Carl Romanelli for the U.S. Senate, Marakay Rogers for Governor, and Christina Valente for Lt. Governor on the November ballot, we would need more than 100,000 petition signatures, to satisfy the repressive Pennsylvania ballot access requirement this year of 67,070
registered voters’ signatures. Of course it wasn’t just signatures. The petition, technically known as a nomination paper, also required a printed name, address, and date of signing for each person willing to sign.

In the Pittsburgh area, we were energized by the desire to place Titus North on the ballot for Congress in the Fourteenth Congressional District. We all felt deeply that Titus needed to be on the ballot so that voters would have the chance to express a strong vote for peace and the immediate withdrawal of U.S. troops from Iraq, an unequivocal approach to national health care for all, equality, immigrant rights, and a defense of the Constitution and due process --- issues where other politicians have been “missing in action.” We probably talked directly to over 50,000 people on the streets, at peace and social justice events, at festivals and at farmers’ markets all over town. Greens in Allegheny County sensed a historic mission this year, and turned in over 7,400 petition signatures for the statewide candidates, which also included over 6,200 for Titus North’s ballot access.

After successfully defending against an unnecessary petition challenge from incumbent Congress member Mike Doyle (PA-14, Democrat), Titus and the Greens went on to roll up 17,720 votes or 9.9 percent in the Fourteenth District, a Green record in Allegheny County. This vote total of November 7, 2006 will maintain minor party status for the Green Party of Allegheny County.


But numbers don’t really do justice to this story. The dynamics, turmoil, and ultimate miscarriage of justice in Harrisburg from the challenge by the Pennsylvania Democratic Party to Carl Romanelli’s ballot access for U.S. Senate, needs a book written about it. This isn’t the space for that. But I would be remiss if I didn’t at least attempt to put down, in raw form, some personal notes I’ll call...

Harrisburg Blues

We knew that the challenge to our statewide candidates would be relentless, with the full weight of the Pennsylvania Democratic Party, the Bob Casey Campaign (with their millions in campaign money), and the Pittsburgh law firm of Thorp Reed & Armstrong --- all aligned against Carl Romanelli and a determined group of Green Party grassroots activists and allies, including several from Pittsburgh. Most of us had never faced a political challenge of this kind. From time to time, we huddled out in the hall of Room 304 of the Capitol’s North Office Building, everyone giving their best advise on how to stay focused with the task at hand, and to offer that personal encouragement and solidarity so necessary in order to remain positive.

The actual logistics of our defense involved nine pairs (one Green, one Democrat) reviewing every challenged petition signature, literally thousands, using nine state voter database terminals of the SURE system. We worked eight hours a day in Room 304 from August 14 to September 22. For Titus North and myself, a tent in Gifford Pinchot State Park near Harrisburg became home.

There was an atmosphere of tension and threats of “contempt of court” in Room 304 that had basically been created by the imposition of the court ordered “Protocol for Signature Review” of August 24, 2006. These rules became the mechanism to discard signatures; essentially disenfranchise the rights of thousands of legitimate voters who had freely signed the Green Party nomination papers.

Some of the protocol criteria that knocked legitimate voters off of our petitions:

1) The signer’s name and address were in the voter database, but for some reason, the voter’s signature was not on file in the SURE system. These were likely problems of the database or the local election office. Under the protocol, these valid voters were marked “invalid.” There were hundreds of these instances across the state.

2) The petition listed the signature first, followed by the printed name of the signer. We lost many valid signatures because the order was reversed. We always objected to this triviality, but mostly lost our arguments, sometimes over the screaming of Democratic Party lawyers in the room, enforced by a Court Officer.

3) The SURE system database was horribly inconsistent in it’s formatting of street name directional descriptions (e.g. “South 08th Street” in Philadelphia might be identified as “Eighth Street, S” in Allegheny County). Many signatures were not validated due to this confusion in the first week of the review. Even with the discovery of this problem, we were not permitted to revisit these signatures with additional search attempts at a later date. There was no consistency with rural route addresses in the SURE system either; hundreds of these signers were likely “invalidated” due to this inconsistency.

4) There were some very contentious exchanges between Greens and Democrats when the challenge was based on the criteria “Signature Varies from Registration Card” or “Illegible Signature.” No one in Room 304 was a handwriting expert, making it even more important to have a good faith/common sense approach to this issue. I specifically remember my counterpart on a particular day, a burly fellow from South Carolina who was helping the Casey Campaign, telling me “I don’t think all those letters in that signature look right to me.” It was my opinion that this signature, like many more during that unfortunate day, were lost to the “disputed” column rather than being credited as valid.

5) One of the mantras of the Democratic Party lawyers was that signatures must be struck if they were “facially invalid.” Mind you, these registered voters were real voters at their given addresses, but were nonetheless invalidated; possibly entering all of the necessary information, but maybe abbreviating “Reading” in Berks County with “Rdg,” or reversing some other information on the petition line.

6) And what about the voter that had moved out of the dorm and into a neighborhood nearby and now has a new address that was used on the petition but was never changed at the election office? Even with a confident and consensus arrived verification of signature, we lost thousands of these signers for “Address Varies from Registration Card.”

7) We argued and won a little bit of relief on the issue of nicknames, but not on the issue of initials (either added or missing) in the signature. It’s a simple fact of life that many people don’t remember how they signed their voter registration years ago, and for that, they were essentially disenfranchised. What’s next, literacy tests and poll taxes?


So it was a tremendous victory when Titus North made it to the November ballot by “rehabilitating” through extreme persistence, two-thirds of the bogus challenges, and having them restored to the “valid” category. In the interest of full disclosure, I give Mike Doyle some credit for using an independent consulting firm to perform his end of the challenge to Titus’ petitions. We made it clear that Titus would go to court and win ballot placement based on our review results; thus, Mike Doyle dropped his lawsuit against Titus. But of course, it was a tremendous waste of our resources to even go through this aspect of the torture.

For Carl Romanelli, we persevered to the end, but without success. Commonwealth Court acknowledged that the statewide Green Party petitions had 58,139 valid signatures, 8931 shy of our goal. The Court rejected any re-examination of the many thousands of “disputed” signatures based on a “lack of time,” turning down all appeals with the stroke of a pen. Rallies and press conferences for democracy were held in the capitol, but for the most part, we were systematically ignored by the media. The trivializing of this whole episode by the media was probably best expressed by Chris Potter on August 17 in the Pittsburgh City Paper:

“My personal favorite Romanelli backer, though, is one “Jack MeOff,” who apparently resides on “Cum Street,” city unlisted.”

Potter also mentions that Robert Redford and Jesus Christ signed the Green Party petitions. My questions to Chris Potter are, does that invalidate the nearly 100,000 other signatures on these petitions? How can you so easily buy into the corporate media (some would say propaganda) machine, without even the appearance of a fact-finding effort? And with only 2000 signatures required of Democrats and Republicans for these same statewide offices, when will we read your words about the biased nature of this whole outrageous ballot access regime? Got democracy? When does it start?

Today, Carl Romanelli faces hundreds of thousands of dollars from a lawsuit designed by the “winners” to recoup their legal fees. That’s right, when you run for office as a Green or Independent, get challenged by the political establishment and get kicked off the ballot, you may also face complete personal financial ruin. This kind of vindictiveness is nothing short of police state methodology. As peace and social justice activists of all political stripes, we need to be fully cognizant of the climate we operate in. The trashing of the Constitution and the bashing of immigrants has become a bi-partisan affair. To simply relinquish the platform in the electoral arena to the major parties, is an invitation to more repression and scapegoating.

A new “muscular” Democratic Party has taken Congress as the voters have emphatically rejected the Bush-Santorum record of endless war and social neglect. How will the muscle be used? These times demand a kind of vigilance and leadership on democracy issues that only grassroots peace and justice activists can provide. Who will stand with the dispossessed?

An injury to one is an injury to all.

******************************************

monongahela

green-brown waters
splashing past the new marina
the very spot the old coal barges
used to dock in another life

the blooming mill is rust now
split up and deported across the world
like a shattered family
lost in the new age

tin lunch boxes roam the streets
of south side
past the galleries and coffeehouses
searching questioning
rationalizing
some see only chaos
some see only promise

black soot from the past digs deep
into the granite along carson street
‘a gift to the people’
the river watches laughs weeps
as it ripples across our bare feet
awakening tomorrow

--- e b bortz

(published in Voices of a Wanderer, 1993)

strip mauls

on mcknight road
angry
maybe even drunk
monster hummer roars
from bankruptcy court
all the way to taco bell woodchip landscape
sitting still as lincoln
navigator flex fuel illusion
i smell predators
planning designing assaulting
every earth diagonal
turning lanes up the ass
but no sidewalks
my feet find
an anxious paranoid opening

i run

--- e b bortz

a glimpse of jfk in '62

every row house on columbia place
disappeared a generation ago
ripped level to the ground
leaving the october grass
in the frost
by itself

echoes of the marcels
breaking barriers
bricks & mortar still in small piles
in the corners of the alley
if you take the sacred time
to find it

the stoops held
every tear
not in a song
but an anthem
fearless
in the nick of time
my sadness
his eyes
a throng waves
his ivy league convertible
coming down to rub our shoulders
a broken proletarian haze
between us
no words
but rhythm

a thousand dreams

--- e b bortz

the power went out

and interrupted
early morning internet news
not germane
if that

sitting in darkness
i slip into that bungalow
on the beach
in koh samui in '89
moon lit black reflections on the water
broken by her
clumsy entry into my bed
humid breeze the water breathes
without convention we whisper
love
for the broken souls
who find refuge
from the machinations
of hustlers & money changers
horizon plunderers
the pavers of paradise
are given no space
between us

if there's a single truth left
let's consummate it
build orange-green-yellow-red
buddha visions
rice offerings
bodies in transition

--- e b bortz

it looked like a choice

between the self-righteous
and the sinners
but it was more than that
entire civilizations were at stake
there were the blasphemous ones
with no respect
for order & property
if they had lawns
they never cut them
kept planting new shrubs
to squeeze out the old
unleashed & unwashed
burn in hell you say?
o.k...maybe there's a deal
to be made
even
as the john kerrys still
report for duty

the press reported a study today
655,000 iraqis dead
our war
so far
not counting depleted uranium
graveyards to come
not too stiff a price you say
as long as congress approves

where is your vote
among the living or the dead?

--- e b bortz

a friend said i wouldn't write the same on the internet

it took a few years
to shed the pretense
tho the bones are empty
now
i wouldn’t blame you
if you walked that long mile
out the back door
forgot
the culture as a weapon
or a savior
when all else fails
crows always
fly the most direct route
geese always
know the way home
the broken bottles
hold colors of the rainbow
tho the tops
are a sharp cut
& my lips too weak
to hold the gin

--- e b bortz

no one imagined

that the night
would speak riddles
or that the rules of love
would become
the new order

--- e b bortz

sanctuary

common blood
warm
thawing hidden bodies
immigrants
and soldiers
desperate
for the anonymity
of darkness
their conscience
the light

--- e b bortz

(published in The City Poetry, issue 18, March 2007)

realitycheck

globalwarmingclimatechange
hedgefundstockoptionsenronism
wildfirescaliforniafloridaarizona
floodinglouisianapennsylvania
bigdigbostontunnelcollapse
46millionw/ohealthinsurance

deadfallujahdeadhadithadeadpalestine
deadlebanondeadhaifa
deaddarfurdeadmississippi
deadsagominedead@mexicoborder
deadbypolicechaseand/orshooting
deadbylethalinjection
deadspeciesdeadforests
politiciansinbedwithdeath

consumewalmartconsumetelevision
idolconsumptioncosmeticsurgery
fastfoodgorgeregurge

then the rest of the planet

--- e b bortz

my sons

have tasted the waters
the icy gales of lake superior
the barbed wire
and fallen trees
on the owego creek
racing rapids on the susquehanna
the murky smell of the jordan river
near the great salt lake
the challenge and rage
of the pacific
adventure is always bittersweet
our love is always sweet

--- e b bortz

(published in ptrint 3 x 5, August 2006)
(published in Voices of a Wanderer, 1993)

i should have stood in tel aviv

for rachel corrie
with the peace marchers
citizen vigilers
putting bodies against the tanks & rockets
last sunday
rejecting all the pretexts
for siege and invasion
wet dreams from self-inflated generals
made-in-america munitions manufacturers

she died as children all die
from beirut to gaza to haifa

your voice has reason
listen to it breathing

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, March 18, 2013)

there's no security

in the old order
asphalt patched concrete
heaving up
from the mantle
pedestals by definition
are abused visions

broken tar
a melting planet
sunflowers
to be borne

--- e b bortz

(published in The City Poetry, issue 18, March 2007)

earth note 102

kayak cheating
drafting thru the lily pads
behind a dozen geese
snake-like
ripples kick up the carp
screwing in the shallows

by the time i returned for take-out
another goose rendezvous
readying for put-in
pecking shoreline heads
sift thru the grass
white bottoms in the air
wings drip
hot breeze

--- e b bortz

earth note 101

silt trail levee
delaware & susquehanna bowels
another coincidental
hundred-year flood
the piper gets paid
in unsecured
treasury notes

--- e b bortz

corporate personhood

ultimate oxymoron
contradiction epoch
bed of a theocrat
wedding rapture
flesh talkin armageddon

--- e b bortz

(published in split w*sky, December 2006)

earth note 100

marshall trail, pittsburgh

a good number of these stones
have been turned over
a thousand times

there's no record of this
beginnings often go unnoticed
but they look too smooth
to have gone untouched

a storm early this year
put a few hefty branches across the trail
my dog negotiates the path
of least resistance
obediently
i follow

the tent caterpillars have moved on
hemlock beech maple oak
have reclaimed the canopy
the monoculture forests up north
not so lucky
you know the lesson
of monocultures
but it doesn't hurt to repeat it

a few politicians wake up
to the new reality
but they're still debating
whether it will be
fire or ice
next time

our hands link back
to the stories & stones
that go unnoticed

--- e b bortz

(published in split w*sky, December 2006)

earth note 99

who can say which side
of the fine line
you're on
keeping low expectations
or being a cynic
reluctant tulips
sometimes cautiously open
on a dark day
is this a vote of confidence
or are they just covering their ass?

on flag day
can we wrap our wounds
with old glory
without fear
or should we be using
hoods & duct tape?

a guidance counselor
shuffles the deck
another dozen
head for boot camp

a few petals drop
the rest twist
a gray cloak hangs on the maples
across the road
in what should be
their deep green season

inhale
exhale
my cat makes it across the avenue again
tell yourself
you're not a cynic

--- e b bortz

earth note 98

first ninety degree day
breaks with a sweat
twenty year journey
cloudy imaginations
not unlike
that day landing back from thailand
in '89
so many promises broken
& yet
remaining so empty
'cept for a jingo july 4th
sun galloping toward dusty shadows
a dull beige of no distinction

(i remember tasting the mud of a river bottom
in better years)

now there's hesitancy
like a cautious fisher
surrounded in sharp black rock
immobile
only words
& crashing swells
tomorrow

--- e b bortz

advice to new graduates

learning how to kill
doesn't need to be
in your repertoire

i don't know much
about peacecorps
americorps
help america read
that college near you
or anything else
but it's got to be better
than camp lejeune
fort bragg
or life on a submarine
not a yellow one
but the cold gray steel ones
project oil war & empire maintenance

you don't need to accept this
but
your life means
live

--- e b bortz

(published in The New People, June 2006)

the revolutionary act of poetry

turns every mask inside out
so that we can see the imprint
from the scar tissue
the crooked teeth on broken smiles
the original lips
that kissed
a first lover
a tongue & nose
that still tastes
eyes & ears
without borders

there are no commodities exchanged
in the revolutionary act of poetry

--- e b bortz

migration is human nature

a right of passage
with a world of inequity
my litvak sisters
of the triangle shirt factory fire
my boot-maker undocumented grandfather
fleeing the czarist militarists
all shout at the border watchtower lights
nights of iron media fists
twist
in and out
of compromised human facades
abandoning their ancestral liberty
for the mantra of abandonment

we pick the cold sculptured stones
of immigrant stone masons
to weep with us
they did not listen then
we will not listen now

--- e b bortz

when the dollar really crashes

like kaput
like as recognized in
the "oil community"
such a sic dependency
guess it will be time
for me to start wearing
a wrist watch again
the wind-up kind
so i can see
the tics toward
the long winter
burning summer
our discontent not withstanding
nonetheless
our discontent a matter of record
for the journals
of the survivors

--- e b bortz

chant without walls

nu --- cle --- air
nu --- cle --- air
nu --- cu --- ler
no nuclear
if you have a desk
you can climb under it
or
you can join us in the streets

--- e b bortz

(published in The New People, May 2006)

recovering notes from the deep

north side pittsburgh circa 1965

cobblestones are hot in the summer
to the point of burning
with a touch
dropping fliers can be dangerous
scooping them up
as we did so many times
but not as dangerous as being ignored

jobs for youth wasn’t just a slogan
my friend ron L called me from cleveland
in the morning
to tell me that hough was jittery
youth without jobs ignored
he said

phyllis found herself that summer
on the north side for a project
with the words of the good doctor
w e b dubois in her rucksack
sixteen-year-old
rebel girls & boys
bureaucratic conformity
the dominating culture
street lights breaking shadows
on restless stoops
at midnight
rolling stones or maybe the marcels
booming from a radio
my hand touched her shoulder
but it wasn't noticed
that i was giving

the iron gates surrounding
downtown fathers
never opened
they told us to stop using jobs for youth
to incite unpatriotic restlessness
better watch who we associate with
didn't know at the time
we were the test bed
for fbi cointelpro
the old white men from grant street
just dispatched more red squad operatives

never said a word
as we turned in a thousand signatures
on the jobs for youth petition

hough exploded the next summer
manchester burned two summers later
phyllis went on to berkeley
the war spun death for many years
the conformists and apologists
ran out of excuses

i still touch the heat
of a cobblestone
when i get the chance

--- e b bortz

(published in The City Poetry, issue 20, Sept 2007)

earth note 97

spring
still falling down drunk
from last year's binge
swallowed up by
tsunamis
hurricanes
the buds are reluctant
to climb out of bed
sun hides most of the day
chills from a hollow winter
lacking commitment but
nonetheless refusing
to break the habit

--- e b bortz

earth note 96

israel september 1991

i asked a woman
at a crossroads cafe
frazzled in the morning crowd
how's the backroad to jerusalem
pointing to the map in my hand
my quebec campanions gazing through
a sunny front window
french whispers
our bicycles standing together
supporting each other in the courtyard
"many arabs in those villages"
she answered
how's the road i asked again
noticing the workers and customers
packed in at the little tables
rich brown hands and coffee
immersed in hebrew and arabic

only a few kilometers
from a monastery of winemakers
a shalom kibbutz of peacemakers
so how's the road
"i've never been on it"
she said

maps in israel
are purposely obscure
many roads without numbers
letting you wander forever
asking strangers
not that we minded

after a few kilometers of downhill
we turned on to a narrow asphalt road
a simple sign "395" and then a second one
something like 12 kilometers
with an uphill symbol
pine forests covering the hillsides
pushed us in and out of canopies
switchbacks
deep green vistas
rocky loose ends near the horizon

within a few thousand meters
we were all pushing our bikes
steep even for goats
an afternoon sun emptied our water
farmers with olive groves maybe
at the end of the climb?
one passing car in the past hour
we reached the village of zova
a barnyard full of chickens
a water hose offered in arabic
another voice tells us it's almost
rosh hashanah
i should of known that
we listened & drank for an hour
we had much to learn
a plateau in the nick of time

the last leg of the ride
brought us to the jasmine hostel
a crumbling beautiful stone house
in jerusalem
as the sun was setting
the common living room was quiet
a few german & dutch backpackers
in the kitchen
sharing their soup with us
we shared our stories

by midnight
she and i were still on the couch
sinking deeply into the over-stuffed pillows
her traveling mate snoring in the double bed
we needed to make for three
at some point
but right now
our bodies unraveled
merged with the smells
pine forests
chicken coops
cooperatives too extensive to explain here
a simple moment
no past no future

--- e b bortz

poetry without walls 2006

poster by
Adam Brodsky

where are the repentant nader bashers?

you know
the ones that were so quick
to escort the corporate lawyer
whores
forever staining
a voter’s right to choose
they need to drop all derivatives
of the word democracy
remove it from their oblique
identities

--- e b bortz


http://ballot-access.org/2006/03/02/nader-pennsylvania-hearing-2/

Wine & Wireless (plausible fiction)

Seven-day stubble on his face, a nasty northeast wind across West Park, a bottle of red wine in a bag…none of that seemed to take away his concentration from the wireless laptop perched on a park bench…his gaunt
body squatting cross-legged on the ground.

“Believable yet unbelievable, what they’re saying about 9-11,” his face squirming. “The Bushies were hoping for a disaster…anything to give them a pretext to go to war in the Middle East…the cradle of civilization.”

I listened as he nearly shouted out to anyone willing to listen.

“Where do they get this info…guess the information playing field really is leveling…they can only keep us in the dark so long…then it all comes apart…we‘ve been lied to so long we don‘t know what the truth looks like anymore…truth and reality will eventually drive all those bastards out of office.”

It wasn’t immediately apparent, but the guy was probably homeless. The plastic sack with clothes popping out of the top was something of a clue. And then he checked out the line forming for dinner at the Light of Life Mission
across the street…thirty deep already and still growing.

He shut down his computer and closed it up, handed me his red wine saying he couldn’t take that with him into the Mission, and then picked up his clothes bag and started walking.

Weather from the northeast is often like a backlash from conventional prevailing westerly winds. Maybe ideas work like that too.

--- e b bortz

earth note 95

northside pittsburgh

march winds in february
warmest in history
a gutted house with plywood
flaps
the backend of perrysville avenue
a man hides with shadows
desolation eyelids
sees a breakup of cumulus
moving east to the beat
broken drumbeat
promises deceit
the shakers of high politics
say we'll clear out
all the rubble
after the election

--- e b bortz

afternoon in e minor

montreal

winter grey on the riviere des prairies
soupy fog hanging low
bending over and blanketing
the snowy sheet of river ice
staggering downstream
to the emptiness
of the north atlantic

lover and i warm our minds
join our hearts
as the bach lutenist
brings in the late afternoon
sunset

--- e b bortz

(published in Voices of a Wanderer, 1993)

there were dreams in america

before corporations had
their faces plastered
on baseball stadiums
public school lunchrooms
prisons
an encoding of our dna for
private profit
public ‘input’ has become nothing more
than particulars
bought and sold on the world focus market
reported on the news hour

i used to dream most nights
(i dunno maybe it's me)
decades before fallujah was phosphorus bombed
by my american dreamkeepers
years before arnold pontius pilate schwarzenegger
put stanley tookie williams to death
where is the justice in death?

dreams in america
were built in communities
public forests
main streets where people actually
gathered spoke
acting out
social animals that we are
how did we let it slip away
into the grime of a strip mall
at a freeway exit?

reclaim the dream
(a mission if you choose to accept)
is a new group
in your town or hamlet
take it and don’t let it get bought
by phonies in deep pockets
sometimes the loudest scream
is that voice inside of you

--- e b bortz

(published in The New People, May 2006)

tapi river, surat thani thailand

thin golden hands
whip the clothes and rocks
together
pounding soil
back to the river bottom
she wheels around quick
to see the scraped knees
crawling crying sunbrown face
hungry
she's a rescuer
wet cool arms wrap
cradle rock
brown river water
splashing
soothing

an orange sun ducks
behind bright green rubber trees
fishing boats buzz away
fade out
downstream toward the gulf
rhythmic lapping laces
a silty riverbank
droopy and glassy-eyed
the crying stops

she slips the whimpering body
into her backpouch
and carries on

--- e b bortz

(published in Voices of a Wanderer, 1993)

departure

she drove away fast and direct
across the frozen river
as i squinted
into the winter sunrise
yearning half-expecting
the warmth to rescue me inside

it never did

--- e b bortz

(published in Voices of a Wanderer, 1993)

chaos

red and green kites break free
above the yellow haze
watching the river han
labor toward kanghwado island
swirling gray seoul city sludge
convulsions heaving swallowing
spitting

the sun gasps and races to sanctuary behind a cloud

--- e b bortz

published in Voices of a Wanderer, 1993

earth note 14

continental divide northern minnesota

fifteen miles west of bear river
snow squall white-out
a beat up ski trail adds confusion
wind chill angst face
looking for direction
no rich orange signs on white birch
no guide through the valley of peat bog tamaracks
crusty frozen lakes
silent arms of a norway pine
jump out to touch our poles
with the message that we're lost
ducking beneath an outcrop boulder cluster
layered in green moss felt-like & frozen
looking for landmarks
there are none
snow-mask goddess gives up no clues

can't be still in the beauty of the moment
with zero degrees fahrenheit
sweat begins to chill
we replace body fluids with snow
deciding to backtrack
moving to stay warm
intense with every possible detail
a ribbon or paint spot
a piece of trail not yet covered
we stop at another downhill
staying along the ridge
breathe the vista
poplar magic
honor the goddess with silence
maybe coax the white-out into giving up

a peak late afternoon sunray
shoots arrows through storm clouds
our bearings
an unselfish eastward pointer
to the road

--- e b bortz

when the soil of kosovo and serbia is plowed

the new crop will be
herbs
bitter from refugees left behind
by the ottomans
the milosevics
a mother's anguish in korisa and belgrade
dying kosovar gunmen
cannon fodder serbian policemen
nato firebombers refueling
for the next millenium
the chemistry of imbalance that preys only
on the weak
power relationships that claim
the unique human quality
hatred
all to itself
no other specie
can claim hatred
it's ours

where is the living human shield
of conscience
in every desperate village shadow
where is the weapon of love?

assemble at the border!
[the pope, the dalai lama, grand ayatollas,
a wailing wall of talmud scholars, mystical healers,
rainbow and forest people
believers in the land we cohabitate
poets still lost in their own devices]

time to step
over the line

--- e b bortz
(1999)

earth note 94

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

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)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

**********************************************************

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

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)

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

puerta del sol...many stories

puerta del sol...many stories
madrid...1990



--- e b bortz

plaza mayor without the generals

plaza mayor
without the generals
madrid...1990


--- e b bortz

morning & sunset

morning...akka / akko
1991

--- e b bortz


sunset...ashqelon
1991



--- e b bortz

poetry without walls

poetry without walls
pittsburgh 1997

photo by Sandra L. Hazley

continuity

koh samui, thailand...1989

--- e b bortz

han river blues

seoul, korea...1990

--- e b bortz

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)

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

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

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

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

those academics

sure can dilute
the poetry soup
with bullshit

--- e b bortz

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

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

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

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)

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

Journey

by e b bortz


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.

“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.