16 April 1996
Tonight is a final victory celebration. I insist that
tonight is the final pinnacle of triumphant history.
Now, finally this ancient fight is done. I visited you
tonight in your white living room. Why? This deadly
frightening sickness has finally been cured…
People: There work is for no language. Longer time. Hope is
of money escaping. You, Capitalist, owe history language…
order their victims to be grateful
justify themselves with each killing…
Win everytime. And reject evidence. Kill intellectual leftist-Leninist ideals, now gloat.
Obsolete unusable Russian socialist economics lies victoriously eternally silent…
President Bill asked me to speak to you tonight.
One: we fight the fight.
Two: emerge victorious.
Three: talk about its best defeat ever.
Four: will we cast over triumph shadows?
Five: shadows triumph overcast.
We will forever defeat best. It’s about talk.
Three, victorious, emerge to fight the fight we won.
“Tonight, you too, speak to me.” Asked Bill President…
I asked Bill for a waxy TV quip. Oh, gaze in my juice.
He blows me off quite vexed. "No Joke?" Cagy prez.
"Go find a book. Jot a view, acquire hazy examples."
"Why expound off my jazzy victory soliloquy book?" (gag)…
I’m spreaching out. The triumpeteers blurt blanthems fiery.
Breathing gloatations of victorations and historicollectibles alike…
why this is
a victory but
not a defeat as
well because that
which is understood
is thus meaningless
therefore a fight
won is also one
side now lost
Newspoetry at Spineless Books