America – whore of Babylon – Mars mars mars
by Roxanne Fontana
face it, yes –
I’m typing this on a Swedish typewriter from another time: Facit –
in script
was this made for chicks?
Intellectual Swede moon blood, right NOW,
Or, once upon a time …
the last time I said goodbye to my parents
45th Street – new times square, in front of old Johnnies.
much happened there – I was rich.
the biggest bags of greatness herbal,
perfumed my world…
& i slept with an impotent rapist …
& my most favourite cat, of 16 ¾ years,
shook out his final breath defiantly. Sun square sun.
i kissed red boy there the first time too,
102 fever, december.
it was the day after the big snow storm, and yes,
the night after the love is blue show at cbs gallery ...
where
spitting gobs of green hell that some demon laughingly
spewed in my lungs, thank you,
in that hall on 45th Street, and later, that week before,
at the 10th Street Baths,
where I've seen Lou Reed disappear,
cockroach heaven. Sun square sun.
west 45th Street, here I was again.
the last time I said goodbye to my parents.
waving final waves - spring sun ...
them, me, red boy, little red girl --
my mother of the fascist roman catholic dream.
I told her she was "on her own now," disgusted,
but now it was me.
West 45th Street squinting in the April sun, the five of us ...
Johnnies, closed and shut away, forever more ..
but before us there was Frank and Ava,
the big tub, rub rub -- I twirled in their tub
thick old Italian marble wall.
the lady from the village voice told me I should cut it out of the wall
and take it,
if I ever leave.
the low red carpeted ceiling downstairs,
it flaked off in your fingers at the touch
& here it was, Dean Martin's lungs -
everybody falls in love somehow.
Italia, Castellaro, is where I am now
not too far from vive la france & not close enough.
Up a hill of many mountains, behind a gate
and a video screen,
suffocating.
in a room panelled as a coffin -
some old kraut woman with the worst artistic taste - dead today
but her shit remains, cramping my soul.
Inge Borg Hochwald. the people in the village say she was a fat miser -
respect the dead.
Los Angeles, California -
that was the city ...
I called there twice now in two weeks
throw the phone in horror.
I had to get away ...
oh is its lameness even worth words?
that last night, starving & wretched
and then vomiting on my favorite food ...
Would I escape? And what?
the phonys who serve two masters -
medicated crippled sad crying drowning
or
blatantly living the lie, it
all leads to The Crack.
break crack -
the world's biggest & most famous crypt
opening up like some colorful medieval book of hours tapestry
only today.
deep wide shaking shattering tumble
rumble -- i see the earth open
5.6, 6.5, 9.7 - very dry death
scum & stupidity
barren of all art and inspiration, finally, yet once a fountain
spring
but rot potential was ever present as
the warning.
respect the dead?
America with your 1950's Las Vegas A - bomb parties at dawn,
you knew it would lead to this -
whore of babylon, (that's)
Iraq, America whore of babylon.
Pigs of the earth from the pig farm,
how on earth did it ever come to this ...
all-of-a-sudden.
everyone saw it coming, they said,
then no one looked and it happened.
frozen gun metal freezer in the hot texas sun.
cia. lsd. manchurian candidate.
neil bush.
two tabs for two texas boys
david hinkley/marc d chapman
weeks apart pop pop
pop pop pop pop
one lived the other didn't.
someone told me
lennon sang in the beautiful people song:
"Baby, you're a rich, fat jew." Allen Klein.
sam cooke, brian jones - respect the dead.
here we were, bombing the garden of eden, after
the bombing of the capitalists in wall street:
high up, glassed in,
no air, no green,
no life.
flammable powdered milk in bad morning coffee
and a planes nose.
America whore of babylon, I am so glad I am
"out of you" today, for I believe in the Holy Ghost
and the good book, it says,
come out of her.
Aztecian day dream -- dream the day away
2012 -
next year we sing that David Bowie song,
it's all we got.
It's all over, 2012, with the shouting.
Trumpets blare, after
2 ½ years of total shit, after
the destruction of the whore ...
I love to sleep with red boy, all entwined legs, where
you don't know whose leg is whose, and all the who in whoville ...
under the Italian sun,
with the English rain - outside,
in the New York filth,
as the L.A. cop-ters chop,
we are aeons apart and
so together, with red girl.
poor red boy, he says,
"but it's ALWAYS been like this."
but I know different.
-- Northern Italy, June 2006 | 
