Saturday is a Good Day to Go to Jail

INTERRUPTION IN THE GOOD TIME OF KAIROS
—Elsie Whitlow Feliz

Every time I start to write a poem somone
knocks at the door. They want to give

me something—usually God. I must
explain I already have God, rather

She has me, and I was busy with Her
work when they interrupted, and She's

going to get them if they don't start
moving. Oh, they say, you don't mean

that you think God is a woman? That's
when God comes to the door to stand

by me. They don't like the look in
Her eyes. We'll see you later, they say.

When Hell freezes over, God says, and
we go back to the work of writing.

_______________________

Thanks, Elsie! Elsie Whitlow Feliz will read at The Book Collector (1008 24th St.) this Wednesday (9/21), from 7:30-9pm, to celebrate the release of her new chapbook from Rattlesnake Press. Entitled Tea With Bunya, this rattlechap explores Elsie’s years growing up as a Russian in San Francisco during the '50's. Refreshments and a read-around to follow; the event is free. Info: 442-9295. Note: for this month only, the Rattlesnake Reading Series has moved from the 2nd Weds. to the 3rd Weds.

Bob Kaufman was born in New Orleans. Seems like a good time to listen to his poetry:


from JAIL POEMS
—Bob Kaufman

3
In a universe of cells—who is not in jail? Jailers.
In a world of hospitals—who is not sick? Doctors.
A golden sardine is swimming in my head
Oh we know some things, man, about some things
Like jazz and jails and God.
Saturday is a good day to go to jail.

5
Nuts, skin bolts, clanking in his stomach, scrambled.
His society's gone to pieces in his belly, bloated.
See the great American windmill, tilting at itself,
Good solid stock, the kind that made America drunk.
Success written all over his street-streaked ass.
Successful-type success, forty home runs in one inning.
This is the greatest country in the world, ain't it?
He didn't make it. Wino in Cell 3.

6
There have been too many years in this short span of mine.
My soul demands a cave of its own, like the Jain god,
Yet I must make it go on, hard like jazz, glowing
In this dark plastic jungle, land of long night, chilled.
My navel is a button to push when I want inside out.
Am I not more than a mass of entrails and rough tissue?
Must I break my bones? Drink my wine-diluted blood?
Should I dredge old sadness from my chest?
Not again.
All those ancient balls of fire, hotly swallowed, let them lie.
Let me spit breath mists of introspection, bits of me,
So that when I am gone, I shall be in the air.

_________________________

Blas Manuel De Luna and Linda Thorell will read at Third Tuesday Poetry Series, La Raza/ Galleria Posada, 15th & R Sts., Sac., this Tuesday (9/20), 7pm. (No open mic.) Hosted by Art and Christina Mantecon. Info: 743-5329.

And head over to The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sac. (where new Snakes await you!) tomorrow (9/18) at 4 pm for Arthur Winfield Knight and Kit Knight, well-known chroniclers of the poets and writers of the Beat Generation. Info: 442-9295.

One more from Bob Kaufman:


WOULD YOU WEAR MY EYES?
—Bob Kaufman

My body is a torn mattress,
Disheveled throbbing place
For the comings and goings
Of loveless transients.
The whole of me
Is an unfurnished room
Filled with dank breath
Escaping in gasps to nowhere.
Before completely objective mirrors
I have shot myself with my eyes,
But death refused my advances.
I have walked on my walls each night
Through strange landscapes in my head.
I have brushed my teeth with orange peel,
Iced with cold blood from the dripping faucets.
My face is covered with maps of dead nations;
My hair is littered with drying ragweed.
Bitter raisins drip haphazardly from my nostrils
While schools of glowing minnows swim from my mouth.
The nipples of my breasts are sun-browned cockleburs;
Long-forgotten Indian tribes fight battles on my chest
Unaware of the sunken skips rotting in my stomach.
My legs are charred remains of burned cypress trees;
My feet are covered with moss from bayous, flowing
across my floor.
I can't go out anymore.
I shall sit on my ceiling.
Would you wear my eyes?

______________________

—Medusa

Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets.