Jack Hirschman, the Arcane of the days of the Death

Την Κυριακή 2 Νοεμβρίου 1975 ξυπνήσαμε χωρίς τον Πιερ Πάολο Παζολίνι

THE ARCANE OF THE DAYS OF THE DEAD
1.
I hope for nothing in the light of this
intrappolando in which the day
on which he died,

not simply murdered, but— as with all
who mean much more than they were—
like a whole nation, even a world,—

assassinated, America’s voting to re-elect
a war machine to continue clubbing
and then running over entire peoples.

So here he is, one of Italy’s grandest
poets, who’s lain in this grave
in Casarsa, a small Friuli town, for

29 years. Six small laurel trees over
him and Susanna Colussi, his mother,
lying beside him in touching irony.

And the sound sorrow makes when
falling through itself and touching no
bottom, with its sadness of blood

and its melancholy of mind in a world
out of joint,— not in the sense of not
having one between one’s fingers.

or sitting in a joint and drinking away
the downright injustice of these days, but—
meaning that a bought and paid-for Con-

stitution, with a grin and gun at the nape
of the world, has among other things
assassinated Pier Paolo Pasolini again.

2.

What serial Days of the Dead to come!
Even kid sister Marilyn, whom he
poeticized so beautifully, is in the

wings shuddering on this cenotaph I’m
constructing of Aztec peacock feathers
six feet long, photos of Marx, Lenin

beside a hammer and sickle flag, Mary
and Joseph and Baby Jesus too, and Jesus
the Christ. And throw in Rumi and King

as well, a mountain of hair and a pyramid
of shoes. It’s the pits, it’s the pits, it’s the
literal pits, it’s the pits that rule the world…

So many dead eyes, I think there are more
than stars in the sky, and they’re here too,
gathered at the tips of my forefinger

and thumb holding this pen, all the stars
that died years and years ago. My absentee
vote’s for them. And nader/nor between

two men of war. A da veni baffona. Ah,
there you are! Let’s have a great DeeoDee!
Diodi. O (Modi. A da ‘veni baffona.

Look at that street-kid, 6 years old, a tiny
accordion in his hands, a cardboard box
with nothing in it at his squatting knees,

singing on Farhadija Street to passing
crowds, and all who take notice of him
are a bank-guard who shoos him five

meters away (where he’s at it again), and
a cop standing over him, who gets up and
splits like in one of Pier Paolo’s movies.

3.

Standing naked to my waist in the hot sun on
a Baronissi balcony above Salerno, I hear
the klop of hooves, then see —beside the cars

doing their ordinary rounds in the piazza below—
13 riders on horseback, the last one a woman,
some wearing cowboy hats, one wrapped in

an American flag, heading up the street like
a posse of disciples of Bush- O Day of the Dead
tomorrow, when it’s over, America, over there,

over there, where all is battery, derangement
and carelessness. What Days of the Dead
ahead! Full of bodies on so many hot corners

of the “world, pieces of shahid and his (or her)
victims, and the bluster and twisted tripe
palavering out of the mouths of the media.

The Gunstitution is speaking: War Vote!
Thug Vote for the gang-swarming bashes
in this desert of consumerism. Goon Vote

to keep Kill on the lips and blow away those
blowjob communist bastards. Beat ’em
with 2X4s? run ’em over with their own cars!

Break into the cowering houses, like the rain
of bullets. Between the eyes. Before they even…
Kill ’em before they reach for… and blow us

up! The Zero within the Zero’s been completed.
The Left”s a confirmed frog-croak, a whelp-whine.
And the Right is a dirty sun with a big black oily eye.

But Pasolini’s ashes, from his burning, burning
spirit ofBesfemmia under earth, Pasolini’s ashes
rise on phoenix wings of flame and cry:

Bush-shit! Bush-shit! Hunward, crasstian soldyears,
marching to the fear. In the dead of autumn
with your mugs and biers.

You who bomb and kill the very origins of humanity,
you who shred truth and work up vulture appetites
for blood in this carrion world, soon will smell

the blossom of Victory. Its fragrance enchanting you,
irresistibly. Adoringly you’ll fall to your knees to smell it
and it will oblige you by blowing up in your dead face.

20O5 is the 30th anniversary of the assassination of Italy’s foremost poet and filmmaker, Pier Paolo Pasolini

Jack Hirschman
HOST – CURRENT SF POET LAUREATE
JACK HIRSCHMAN is the current Poet Laureate of San Francisco. Born in New York City, he has published more than 100 books, half of them translations from nine languages. He sees poetic creation as revolutionary action, and is member of the League of Revolutionaries for a New America. Recently, his massive 1,000 page book of long poems, The Arcanes, was published by Multimedia Edizioni in Italy in the English language, He has read at international festivals in France, Germany, Venezuela, Italy, England and Canada With the help of the Friends of the Library, he has organized the Poets Eleven series of branch library readings for the past year, and this first International Festival of Poetry for the city of San Francisco.