March 3, 2019

John Paul Davis

ELEXXXION

It’s election time again. It feels like the bruises
from the last one haven’t finished healing.
I mean that metaphorically; I’m not actually
healing from the last election, just walking
around rearranging matter on the earth’s surface
as if nothing was wrong at all while inside
I’m aching from trying to bridge the gap
between the promises my country
made me & what it actually delivered.
It’s a very large gap. Some might call it a chasm
or a canyon or a crevasse in honor
of the glaciers all melting. While I hang here
in between where we should be & where we are
holding the two together, candidates
use me for a bridge, walking across my arms
in their shoes that cost more than I make
in a pay period. The liberals are careful
not to step on my head; the conservatives
assume if I didn’t want to be stepped
on I wouldn’t be hanging here. The two sides pull
apart & the capitalists call this growth.
The tech companies collect data
from the percussion of my popping joints & the twang
of my stretching tendons. They can predict
how much more I will take, measured in thumbs-up
icons. All of the candidates agree we should bumble
on down to a younger republic and meddle in their election,
maybe flash our guns around & show off our drones
until the dictator who will let us taste their sweet sweet
oil wins. All of the candidates agree the best way
to raise a market is to let it eat whatever it wants
& use everyplace for its toilet & that freedom
means cleaning up after it forever. Ok, there’s one
who says maybe there’s a better way but all the editorials
say he’s not electable. We send our soldiers
to other countries to help their unelectables,
but, here, we pin lies to their backs like kick me
signs; we make looping memes out of them
then decades later name a Monday after them, quote
them in speeches, make out in the shadows of their statues.

from Poets Respond
March 3, 2019

__________

John Paul Davis: “This is a response to election season kicking off but also the way in which, 21 months before the election we are already getting opinion pieces about ‘electability.’ At the same time pretty much everyone is championing us helping Venezuela’s unelected president take power. The only candidate unwilling to do that is getting called unelectable because of it.” (web)

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April 5, 2016

John Paul Davis

ROOTBOUND

Girl, girl, sweet wife, let us
get out of here while we still can. We
are both so bruised by the city,
bombarded, irradiated. This here
is an imitation of life at best.

Would you have thought ten years ago when we
were both striving towards urbia, dolor
of our small-time homes bannered over us
like a white-blue sky, that we
would now give it up, and gladly,
for quiet, for good work, for belonging, for love?

Like so many things, there is nothing
evil about a city in itself, but with us
it has become an uphill boulder, a carcinogen.
I’m tired of seeing you leaned
over by life so.

I’m not saying it’ll be easy.
I see the way you take the daisies
from their tiny pots, rip
at the roots, break them from themselves,
unwinding their tight alliances
with themselves so they might
spread in larger pots. We
are ourselves wrapped around ourselves,
insular, tangled, thirsty for water
that can’t be coaxed out
of space that isn’t there.

Is it this place? Places
like it? This zombie economy?
The sky of no stars?
Phone companies?
Insurance companies?
Street gangs?
In the end, they’re all the same;
they’ll keep taking and taking
until there’s no love left in us
and we are takers too.

I don’t want to be the perpetual stranger,
what a city makes of a person
given enough time. I want to see
a billion stars spilled out generous
above me, falling to the horizon
and give thanks.

If we must, we must. I don’t know
where to go. But may we
hear the sound of root rent
from root soon, may we feel
the good, good tearing
of our very fibers.

Forget investment. Give me a home
I can love, a place I can belong to. Give
me work worth doing. Worth real
enough to work towards. Anything
but this dust and straw.

I want to kiss you in the blue
quiet of a moist field. I want to know
the earth beneath my feet
like I know the dip and stretch
of my own body. I want to know
you, to know the place
where I belong, to know
the love that fuses people
and places as one,
root and soil and soul. Girl,
girl, sweet wife, let us
get out of here while we still can.

from Rattle #17, Summer 2002

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