another poem only published in 1998 - Post Amerika. a prose poem. it seems i have been sharing poems from the 92-98 time period .... when i first began soliciting poems. it was also one of my most prolific periods, as well as a time when i began to define the type of voice i have used since then...
here's a hint for future tests: support small presses if at all possible.
update: visited with "Bruce" last evening and discussed (among other things) the contract proposal. Since you had to be present and sign in to get a data sheet (and i wasn't there), he let me borrow his to look over. Contract isn't all that exciting, and really not all that different, except for they now have testing for jobs in the contract (though it's been sort of in practice for a while) and start times have changed to an hour earlier, when in practice most people started their shift anyway. A few other changes in insurance and language ... but nothing earth shattering i could see at first glance. 7 year contract with no raises in two of the years (this being one of the years).... and it's just not quite long enough for me to be able to retire under this contract. So i'll have to wait and see what happens after 7 years .... and i see no reason it won't pass, though officially the votes can't be tallied until after tonight.
SONG OF THE PIONEER GHOST
forget that i have stood before the wind. forget that it was my bones that broke the earth for your pretty garden. let the radishes grow for your salads forever. & i will be there, part of the opened earth that you carelessly walk upon.
forget that i have opened doors to the mountains. the rivers will off gold & nickel. forget that my bones were used to harness the troubled waters as you dip your toes & sip the crystal was if it champagne.
forget that i have frozen upon glaciated passes. forget that i have fallen into foaming rivers that gnaw at the very root of mountains. i will be in the warm air of your electrical furnaces. i will be in the laughter of intoxicated company.
forget that i have learned the language of depression, that i have learned the songs of desperation. forget that i have learned the chatter of wildflowers & the song of the eagle, that i have spoken with the gods of the wind & stone. i will be there in your books gathering dust. i will be there in the schools, in the museums. & i will be in the eyes of the children you do not even recognize.
the poetry and rambling thoughts of a working class poet
