Inflation Achieves a Single Digit Unemployment Rises to 8.9%
by CAROL TARLEN
Our hands complain of protein deficiency as
David slices more than his ration of ham
5-1/2 lbs of meat per person per month in Poland
Pass the navy beans, please
They are pale pink and slushy
Legumes are good for the soul
The free enterprise of well-balanced amino acids
The dialectics of eating
Alicia denounces bland cabbage soup
History gets a C- at our fashionably
Bourgeois Butcher Block Table
When the grade drops to D+
We steal a loaf of bread
Then we build barricades
The Receptionist Sits at Her Desk
and Hums Solidarity Forever
by CAROL TARLEN
we will bring to birth a new world
from the ashes of the old
I am the large gold fish you peeked at
through the cold rain
into the algae green pond.
My flesh has seen the four corners
of the earth. I am succulent.
My scales gleam into your
watery gray eyes.
I am the carefully placed objet d’art
that makes your phone calls,
types reports of your tax deductible
winter cruise,
greets your clients with
an oleander smile.
When I sit in my newly upholstered
swivel armless chair,
I dream of exotic locales,
walk in vast landscaped parks.
In midst I see myself
bent and old, a scarf around
my narrow shoulders,
digging in smoldering ashes,
but then I see
that I am wide hipped, tall, strong,
legs spread,
birthing.
Thank You for Your 15 Years
Of Service to the Department
by CAROL TARLEN
pink slipped into oblivion
the supervisor kindly grants me
permission to use
the office laser printer
to update my resume
under skills
I list my liabilities
*age
*attitude
*little software knowledge
*lack of hard drive
with clarity as searing
as sunglare on water
I write this poem
this last day
on company time
While Watching the Clock at Work,
I Contemplate the End of Entropy
by CAROL TARLEN
And what will the rapture look like?
Will files dissolve into dust devils
and swirl off my desk
leaving piles of ashes beside the phone?
Will invoices melt in the xerox?
Will I have time to fax the kidney of a bat
to an organ bank
and demand an immediate finder’s fee?
Yes! And my computer will refuse to backspace;
I will scatter my typos like bones;
while my immediate supervisor and the CEO
nip at my heels like a pack of half-dead dogs.
I will eat the appointment calendar for lunch,
and, in a bulemic fury,
toss it down the office toilet,
dreams of corporate mergers
swimming with the sewer rats.
Oh orgasmic ecstasy!
Oh joyous rain falling on my aching skin!
I am placing a personal phone call to Gabriel,
deleting the memories of a thousand machines,
ripping the chains from my ankles,
kicking off my correctly office attired one-inch heels,
my bare feet dangling delicately
above my personal bulletin board
(decorated with pictures of Brecht, Marley and Isadora)
as I gloriously rise to paradise
and join the Angels Liberation Front!
Mission Poet Banned by State Department
by CAROL TARLEN
“In 1976, when (Roberto Vargas) was serving as the director of San Francisco’s U.S. Bicentennial Celebration, he was quietly preparing to fight in Nicaragua. He trained for the mountainous terrain by running up Bernal Heights.” (North Mission News, July 1986)
Hordes of San Francisco Revolutionary poets
are invading Bernal Heights
in Birkenstocks and sneakers
made in the People’s Republic of China,
their iambs and similes
like a red sea of banners.
All Metaphors to the People!
Revolution in the name of Poetry!
Up they go,
rounding the corner to Costa Street,
also known as Dog Patch
where once upon a time
a woman in a blue bathrobe
stood in front of a bulldozer
when property rights disturbed
her Saturday a.m. and secretaries,
waitresses, filmmakers, union
organizers, welfare recipients,
kids of all sizes, creeds and colors,
the unemployed, and God only knows
Marxist poets even
circled the contractor, the land
owner and the real estate agent,
hurling epitaphs and insults:
Down With Upward Mobility!
Mister, Leave Our Shacks Alone!
Past the bulldozer and blue
bathrobe, past lazy dogs
sleeping on unpaved streets,
up the hill, there they go
—Revolutionary Poets—
flashing their small press books,
their heavy breath blazing
the sky with image clusters,
Mayakovski’s and Neruda’s
tender bastards,
illegitimacy being the legitimate
response to property and state.
Give me a Trope! Give me a Rhyme!
Join the Revolution! Make this Climb!
For our comrade, Roberto Vargas, Exiled San Francisco
Poet and Citizen of Nicaragua Libre
Carol Tarlen was a San Francisco working class poet/trade union/anti-war activist who died in 2004. Her first book of poetry, Every Day Is An Act of Resistance: Selected Poetry by Carol Tarlen (introduction by Jack Hirschman, coeditors Julia Stein and David Joseph), was just published in April 2012, by Mongrel Empire Press.
Editorial Note: (Please Read Closely Before Submitting)
To submit to Poets’ Basement, send an e-mail to CounterPunch’s poetry editor, Marc Beaudin at counterpunchpoetry@gmail.com with your name, the titles being submitted, and your website url or e-mail address (if you’d like this to appear with your work). Also indicate whether or not your poems have been previously published and where. For translations, include poem in original language and documentation of granted reprint/translation rights. Attach up to 5 poems and a short bio, written in 3rd person, as a single Word Document (.doc or .rtf attachments only; no .docx – use “Save As” to change docx or odt files to “.doc”). Expect a response within one month (occasionally longer during periods of heavy submissions).
Poems accepted for online publication will be considered for possible inclusion of an upcoming print anthology.
For more details, tips and suggestions, visit CrowVoiceJournal.blogspot.com and check the links on the top right. Thanks!
