Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #5                        Page 55
                                   
Table of
Contents



Chatting with Pasha

We reminisce about AIDS research,
crowds in the Maidan,
ice bags as barricades,
vans crammed with wood and tires,
tires then piled high
to burn,
to warm,
to then spew smoke
to hide people’s bodies
from snipers high above.
A tent of women’s fingers mixed
petrol, oil, pelleted Styrofoam
for bottled cocktails to serve
overhand
for underhanded police to dodge or
burn.

Such was our quiet Sunday brunch
a year after the drama ended
here in Kyiv
while eastwards cities slowly die
in a war the Russians ignited
lest their people rise,
lest revolutions grew to slay
corporations
here, there and beyond.

  Sam Friedman __






Field work

I listened in wonder when
Alex first told of bobtailing his load
from PMT to Tarzana,
or John T recalled his years
being dispatched from the hiring hall
to haul doubles from the City of Industry
to West LA,
or Mannie Labastida moaned about
break-bulk barns that
stole the Local’s jobs.

Within a year, I could toss these terms
of drivers and their daily class struggles
like a juggler’s balls,
one, two, three, even more,
the air scintillating to the flying light
of my rhetorical ball-shit,
rhetoric devoid of the transferred pallets,
potholed kidneys,
and daily harassment by dispatchers
that made their lingo sing.

  Sam Friedman__


Golden Year

“Retirement,”
my wife whispers.
Time for her to write,
time for her to grade no more,
forever.

I hear, “time to die” and
“roadway to my grave.”)

I see her “no more nose to the grindstone”
as a twelve foot orange flywheel of nothing-to-do
chasing me down an empty Jersey sidewalk
screeching “Boredom! Boredom! Boredom!”
‘til I jump on four unattended Harleys
to spend a final dying year
speeding nowhere with my wife
in all directions.

  Sam Friedman__