[Hpn] San Francisco's STREET SHEET Online -- February, 2001 -- =?ISO-8859-1?B?oQ==?=SPECIAL POETRY ISSUE! pt 1 =?ISO-8859-1?B?oQ==?=SPECIAL POETRY ISSUE! pt 1

chance martin streetsheet@sf-homeless-coalition.org
Wed, 31 Jan 2001 19:57:52 -0700


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San Francisco's STREET SHEET Online Edition

February, 2001 

。SPECIAL POETRY ISSUE!
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CONTENTS:

0   FOREWORD
        by chance martin

1   UNITE
        by Jack Hirschman

2   (UNTITLED)
        by Maria Poblet

3   DONUT HOLE
        by James Tracy

4   THE SECOND COMING OF MIKE DORN
        by James Tracy

5   SHUT THE FUCK UP
        by Lumpen-in Paradise

6   SAN FRANCISCO APOCALYPSE NOW
        by Keith Savage

7   FROM MY HEART REVOLUTION
        by George Tirado

8   ANGELS
        by George Tirado

9   IN MEMORIAM 
      RAY THOMPSON 1943-1990
        by Jack Hirschman

10  SIXTH STREET
        by Ray Thompson

11  I'M NOT DEAD YET
        by Sarah Menefee

12  TRADING PLACES
        by Anna Morrow
        PO' POETS PROJECT

13  POVERTY
        by Jewnbug
        PO' POETS PROJECT

14  CAN'T REST
        by Leroy F. Moore, Jr.
        PO' POETS PROJECT

15  I AM FREE BUT MY HANDS ARE TIED
        by Joseph Perryman
        PO' POETS PROJECT
        
16  NEW SIGH
        by Joseph Bolden
        PO' POETS PROJECT

17  STOP
        by Tiny
        PO' POETS PROJECT

18  POOR MAN'S BLUES
        by Vlad Pogorelov
        PO' POETS PROJECT

19  ON THE NIGHT OF DEC. 13th WE BROKE THE WINDOWS OF ZEPHYR REAL ESTATE
        by @WP
        (the Army of the Working Poor)

20  THE SHOWDOWN
        by Dennis Fritzinger
        WARRIOR POETS SOCIETY

21  FREEDOM
        by Wildman

22  UNTITLED
        by Anonymous

23  THE FLOWER DAYS
        by Mark Goldfinger

24  FRIEND
        by Unicorn Dreams
        aka Steven Dulclercque

25  IS GOD DEAD?
        by Jerry H.
        UNDER THE BRIDGE PROJECT

26  HOBO
        by Jaime Kupchun
        UNDER THE BRIDGE PROJECT

29  LOVE POEM TO THE CUBAN REVOLUTION
        by Maria Poblet
        
30  I USED TO LOVE THE RAIN
        by Forrest Curo
        STREET LIGHT

31  PLACING LIFE WITHIN
        by Ricky Teague

32  LIBERTY
        by Wildman

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。EDICION POPULAR EN ESPANOL!
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33  POEMA DE AMOR A LA REVOLUCIモN CUBANA
        por Maria Poblet

34  MI TRISTEZA
        por Nancy Esteva

35  ODA A LOS POETAS POPULARES
        por Pablo Neruda
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0  

    FOREWORD 

I hope you folks are ready to sit down and read some poetry.

The response from our call for submissions was overwhelming, and I'm sorry
to say that the majority of those didn't make it this month. I promise that
you'll see them over the next few months. To all: THANK YOU!

I don't have a lot else to say here. I abandoned poetry long ago. This man
is the reason why: 

"We are moving toward the Spirit. What I say is oracular and absolutely
right. I understand... and since I cannot express myself except in pagan
terms, I would rather keep quiet."
        Arthur Rimbaud

OK, he DID write what is considered the greatest prose poem in the French
language -- at the ripe old age of nineteen -- and after he got it all laid
down he quit. Smart move. I was twenty five when I first read it, and I
haven't made many serious efforts to write poetry since.

Read it here:

http://www.geocities.com/Athens/8161/rimsaisonmain.html

"Come on! It's Spring!"
    Jack Hirschman

Jack Hirschman -- San Francisco's "Dean of Marxist Poetry" -- honored us
with more of his inspiring words this month. Jack and I have shared some
history, I'm proud to say.

Read more about that here:


One of Jack's contributions was a tribute to Ray Thompson -- a local poet
who died homeless about a decade ago -- and I ran it alongside one of Ray's
poems I found in my back issues of POETRY USA.

"I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing."
    T.S. Eliot

I found the T.S. Eliot poem that I've previously mentioned in reference to
homeless deaths. It's called East Coker. I find it oddly comforting.

Read it here:

http://salimba.freeweb.supereva.it/Iastcoke.htm?p

Finally, as I was firmly snared in the deadline craziness, San Francisco
lost one of the last of our famous beat poets -- Gregory Corso. I've
included this poem by him here as a tribute to his fearlessness (and my
cowardice).

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I am 25

With a love a madness for Shelley
Chatterton    Rimbaud
and the needy-yap of my youth
has gone from ear to ear;
I HATE OLD POETMEN!
Especially old poetmen who retract
who consult other old poetmen
who speak their youth in whispers,
saying:--I did those then
    but that was then
    that was then--
O I would quiet old men
say to them:--I am your friend
    what you once were, thru me
    you'll be again--
Then at night in the confidence of their homes
rip out their apology-tongues
and steal their poems.

Gregory Corso
3/26/30  1/17/01

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My personal favorites in this edition are SHUT THE FUCK UP, DONUT HOLE,
ANGELS and ON THE NIGHT OF DEC. 13th WE BROKE THE WINDOWS OF ZEPHYR REAL
ESTATE. They have lots of heart in them, and help me in finding mine.

peace,

chance
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1 

UNITE

In a hundred, no,
A thousand ways
Their instruments
Can split us,
Mincemeat us, 
Grind us down,
Shear us,
Fleece, drug
And porn us,
Throw an embargo
Of lies around us,
Bombard us daily
With their trivia
And twaddle,
Make us serve
The surface formica
Of our selves alone;
Clone us,
Strip our souls
Of goals
And say
We've won a bonus
And throw us
The dogbone
Of another day
And again dope us
And pope us,
Keep us jammed
In a squabble-
Me this, you that,
He's crazy, she's psycho,
That one's drunk,
This one's screwy-
They have the means
And the bread
And the living dead
To do that to us.

What do we have?
One thing.
O, but that thing 
Can stop the slicing
Machine's fangs,
Can fill the cracks of division in a flash,
One thing for the
Working and non-working
Class being born:
An organ, the organ
That plays the harmonies
Of our blazings,
The organization
Of our collective fight.
Come on!
Divest that old
Winter skin of their
Brand of individuality.
Come on! It's Spring!

Jack Hirschman

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2 

(UNTITLED) 

give me a movement that moves
when the wounded stop weeping
and strike back 
the woman on capp and 16th no longer dances
to the thump of cocaine in her veins
instead learns the rhythm of marching
and the once dealers of her chemical amnesia
distribute protest flyers
convincing the crowd at the bus stop to stop waiting and start moving
a movement that moves
where barbed wire unravels
cops run stumbling from fifteen year old boys
mothers force the mayor to resign
grandmothers hail the jesus of sandino
naming wicked those who make poverty
and blessed the poor
a movement that moves
where we all cut up our drivers licenses
burn our birth certificates
in solidarity with undocumented immigrants and transexuals
a movement that moves
where we stage an occupation of both sides of the border
that no landlord can buy or bully us out of
a movement that moves
where mops and bricks lay idle on the floor
while workers flood the street with songs and stomping
and demands too big for any CEO to meet
give me a movement 
where the wounded stop weeping
and strike back 
a movement that 
moves us 
all 

Maria Poblet

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3 

DONUT HOLE

The donut shop is open 24 hours a day.
It's the demilitarized zone of the class war,
where hookers, pushers, hipsters,
pimps and the police become one under
the fluorescent lighting.
They ignore each other
with the skills of secret agents.
Consider this: A cinnamon twist cease fire.

"Hey buddy, can you spare a few bucks?"
A man sings, "I got three kids, I'll work if
you want me to. I'll even bust my ass for the
hole in the donut, baby boy."
People who beg for the hole in the donut
must be dealt with.
If they get away with this
it would certainly mean anarchy.
The cop stares with contempt
and bites his donut.
The cops won't bother him here:

Johnny Donuts, where 16th Street
sells Valencia for a quick fix.
It's two a.m. in this shrine, a temple,
an accidental gift from Korean immigrants
to the Eternally Enlightened,
All-American Lumpen Proletariat.
These people here are hated
by most college educated Marxists.
They are also the only ones tough enough
to survive a real revolution.

I'm sitting here drinking coffee
to cure insomnia.
I am only an expatriate of the mind.
The cop in the corner broke a 14-year-old
Salvadoreno yesterday.
Maybe the jelly donut will finally
live up to its street name: cop killer

A stranger sits down across from me.
He talks softly of shrapnel in his skull,
Saigon, Vietnam.
He wants a dollar for some soap. "Man,
I can tell the Agent Orange is still on my skin.
I got to wash it off once and for all."

I believe it really.
Agent Orange must have altered
the sperm of our fathers.
It has made my generation into a damn mutation,
condemned to walk backwards,
chase our own tails
and always turn up a few cards short
of a full deck.

A woman's voice breaks the tension
and nearly the plate glass.
"Just like Freddy Krueger I'll be in your dreams!"

Then another voice beats out a familiar mantra.
"Coca-Chiva-Coca-Chiva-Coca-Chiva."

The cops rise and walk towards the door.

James Tracy

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4 

THE SECOND COMING OF MIKE DORN

Mike was pronounced dead a few days ago.
Skidrow hasn't been the same since.
How it all happened,
depends on who you talk to.
Some said he was partying with his sister
in a hotel room and the
alcohol mixed with a prescription drug.
Mama said it was AIDS,
another said it was a heart attack.

Then there's Chocolate, the sweetest
Billie Holiday voice on the set. She cried
and cried and swore to get sober this time.
Amidst a sea of shopping carts everyone cried
and remembered something about Mike.

Mike would be neighborhood activist.
Mike the old timer.
Mike the singer of the nasty songs.
Mike the one who could make everyone laugh.
Mike who never put the snitch jacket on.
Mike, who if he could ever do anyone wrong
wasn't going to have those things
brought up that day.

Twenty four hours later
Mike got off the Mission 14 and some fainted
and some stared in disbelief.

Could it be that Mike walked
amongst the living once more?

Well, his heart had stopped that night and
people are still arguing how that happened.

But his sister who was with him
ran out of General Hospital
back to Mission Street and told everyone she
had watched her brother flatline
then she disappeared too.

The catch was that five minutes later
the doctor bought him back from the dead.

Since it was public health
he was kicked out of the hospital the next day.

It took Jesus three days
To get back from the dead.
It only took Mike five minutes.

James Tracy

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5 

SHUT THE FUCK UP

For all you brothers out there
who think us gals shouldn't call the pigs
under any circumstances...

Do you mean, when just finished nursing
your own flesh-and-blood-son
only a few hours before,
and cuz somethin is botherin you,
we don't really know what,
you want to punch us in our breasts?

Do you mean, when we didn't make your
pancakes quite right,
and so you threaten to take our only child
from our care and love and sight, forever?

Do you mean when you break into the front window
cuz we won't let yer coked-out ass in the house no more,
so we're standing in the back bedroom of the house,
baby in highchair sweetly eating his cottage cheese,
[we just quickly drunk a glass of wine for courage]
loaded shotgun aimed and cocked
[but fortunately for our whole family,
you chicken-shit out, again, and leave]

Do you mean, when you drag us
up and down the streets, beating on us
for all community eye to see, young and old,
especially those limp-dick eyes of the
so called comrades
who stand by, mute, watching, waiting
for the chance to stand next to someone famous
and pick his pocket

Are those the times you mean we're
not supposed to call the pigs?
Cause at those times it seem to us
there's not much difference between you and them -
but rather just who's beatin on us at that particular moment.
After all, it's just a matter of time.

LUMPEN-IN PARADISE

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6 

SAN FRANCISCO APOCALYPSE NOW

With a call from Jesse Jackson "Don't run against Willie Brown"
Should Tom Ammiano fear for his life as Harvey Milk in this town.
Hank Wilson with the gay movement - on your ballot, write in Tom.
We are not yet defeated; on this Mayor... Drop a bomb
Diamond Dave at the U.N. Plaza- get yourself something to eat
Write in Tom RIGHT NOW- bring the mayor to defeat.

Food Not Bombs, at your service - feeding (Vegan) in the street
while Glide Memorial seats It's homeless - to feed them mystery meat.
Sister Bernie Gavin on the steps at City Hall protests her right to feed.
186 homeless dead - warm blankets they did need.
 Homeless shelters are psychological assaults - attacks the mind with all
fear however,
Amos Brown tells an old women & son: "It's my house - get out of here!"
 
Homeless shelters are not fit, to leave a dog on vacation - Willie Brown
says of the Guardian:
"Nothing's accurate in that paper."
Willie's scare tactics to the unions: "Vote as I say vote!"
The unions, in the Supervisors election: Shove it! (that's a quote).

Amos Brown in the grave yard - taking votes amongst the dead
Writes down every name he sees - even people with no head.
Coalition On Homelessness, a victory for the homeless of Mission Rock
Kicked out by C.A.T.S., no possessions - they were lost at the dock.
The Big Brown machine sells out - Artists by gentrification
The dot-com response to the charges: we are victims in this nation
The Homeless Summit - still none, and: Oprah took back her check
Better not to complain to Glide about the food
Or they will break your neck.

Five F.B.I investigations - simultaneously - set up against Willie,
meanwhile the call,
goes out in the city - 90 days .....
Where's Muni ?

Mental Health - abuse on the streets - we ask, where do we look
Police say boldly, and state again - "hey don't look at us!"
Yolanda J. making money, from no job at all - do we trust.
"The mayor is my Godfather - hey don't look at us!"

Poor Dennis Antenore crossed Willie in his way
he would not agree with his planning commission - he has no job today

What happened to the promises - where are we all headed
The answers to that San Francisco, are found in Willie Brown's shredder
The Chronicle/Examiner deal - Willie buys a paper; you can have all the news
You want - but they turn the truth to vapor
Special assistants, dressed to kill - assistants to Willie Brown

Joe O' Donoghue at City Hall: he will "kick your butt" - right now !
Proposition N turn around - no end of lofts in sight
Willie says "Don't elect crazy people" - keep the board to the right
White horse - the bow of conquest
The red horse - a sword, no peace
The black horse - the scales of balance - no measure of relief
The pale horse - the scythe - the symbol of the reaper.
At Glide Memorial Are all gathered - smiling under the steeple
They know something you don't know-
Mystery meat ... is people

Keith Savage 

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7 

FROM MY HEART REVOLUTION

last night I dreamed I was
an aztecan warrior proud
standing high atop a pyramid
my long black hair blowing in the wind
but now I'm here in the barrio
I am here alone watching as young soldiers
are rounded up nightly
hands behind head, legs crossed in the back
faces violently pushed
into murals of the Virgin Mary or her son
I watch as flashing lights make shadow imagery
on the faces of uninterested onlookers
red for the north and blue for the south
my ears are filled with the dull beat
of sad hearts and crying
loose talk I-told-you-sos in both
English and Spanish, the sad songs
from the passing mariachis
and the same tired old symphonies I hate
made from the sirens of the chotas' cruisers
I am lost and confused my culture is dying I see
it everywhere like that dead mothers son who
only place is a dirty sidewalk that with his last
breath and last moment only thing he takes in is
a restaurant which tells us to run for the border
this is what killed him to start with
remember
we did not all cross the fucking border
before it killed us
all my heroes are gone fighting revolutions
this time they might win
Juan Mureita's head is in a jar of alcohol, the
brown buffalo is dead in a corn field with a
spike hanging out of his arm, Ch is dead by the
same people which one day will kill us all and
Mumia pounds his head on a concrete wall
hoping someone will understand
you see I put down the pipe I put down the needle
and I pick up a pen and now I see aztlan as it is
meant to be seen forever

George Tirado

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8 

ANGELS

martin luther king once said "I have a dream"
so did I you see I dreamed in techno
blood red and cuz 415 blue you see
LAST NIGHT I DREAMED OF ANGELS
ANGELS
in the early morning tenderloin crack crawl
with split lips and blackened eye and broken
wings hoping that this next hit might
make her fly
LAST NIGHT I DREAMED OF ANGELS
ANGELS
dirty young man smelling of cheap cisco wine he
removes his clothing and steps away from his
baskart then does a drunk thi chi dance naked
in front of god and all the laughing masses
LAST NIGHT I DREAMED OF ANGELS
ANGELS
a tired old man with yellow stained fingers dirty face
snot on beard, hands me his last twenty without
looking down rounds the corner then he's gone
LAST NIGHT I DREAMED OF ANGELS
ANGELS
youngsters tagging sagging and flagging great walls
with inscriptions only they can read but put there
unto death
LAST NIGHT I DREAMED OF ANGELS
ANGELS
ANGELS
ANGELS
floating
falling and drifting
angelic prostitutes dresses in torn red silk
prom dresses with beat up faces broken bones
falling
spiraling
floating
they reach for their date which is death
he dresses in a red tuxedo he hands them
a dead red rose wrapped in a red ribbon
tonight they will cry hold him close and never let
him go
tonight he will laugh and not let them stumble
floating
dreaming
on cylestri dream music
LAST NIGHT I DREAMED OF ANGELS

George Tirado

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9 

IN MEMORIAM 
RAY THOMPSON 1943-1990

Of the streets,
of begging hands and windblown cardboard,
of flophouse doorways or the lot behind the autobody shop,
of evictions from one downpour to another,
and the trembling coffee,
the burning corner can,
the scavenged alleys,
the scratched and ravaged graffiti,
the transient handbills
and collectives of alone

he was a poet
who wrote the deep lines the rotting weather
of this system cuts into human faces,
who saw in the cracks and fissures
endurance birthing flashes of a radiant
lava-whirl of erupting rage,
and how hungry hunger is for it!
how widespread homelessness is for it!
how fertile futility is for it!
In this land where every living being or thing
is up for grabs or sale,
how headlong suffering is for it!

Earth, be mended
in the tears of your seams, O ragged earth,
be healed in your desire
for his body with these tears. Mix him
with the thunders you've stored,
with the rains, the suns,
the lightningcracks
and the strokes of your loving zodiac,
wrap him home, wound in his friends'
never-ending memory of his ascendings.

Jack Hirschman

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10 

SIXTH STREET

I've slept in the caverns
South of Market
& know the possibilities hidden
under sidewalks
in dead buildings
Geary Street Theaters
& North Beach stormed by troopers of Punk
hidden from the fog howling
in the gates of bitter saloons
hidden in the whimsey & violence
flooding the streets
with knives and fast cars

I have seen legions of wounded
haunting hotels
in search of yesterday's chances
that were fumbled one by one: like
silver coins rolling forever
past the reach of dreamers
The past kissed is death
& crippled march backwards into its wars
dogs baying guard the keys
and wolf down every sunrise

The lost spill tears
into October
& weary of spinning dreams
weary of being born again

I've seen the fear in the eyes of the hooked
The cancelled eyes of forked roads never booked
& those taken ending in loveless insurrections
of the nervous system
& empty spoons long pawned
in the starry hockshops
that claimed
no regret
seen in whirls of snowy memory

Ray Thompson
died homeless in San Francisco

(originally published in POETRY USA)

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11 

I'M NOT DEAD YET

I'm not dead yet said an old man
who came out of the night out of the dark mouth of an alley
as though in answer to my thoughts
of those who died alone in the streets
of San Francisco last year

of one who lay down on a concrete bench and never got up
of a young man found on the ground by his makeshift hut
another where he sat barefoot in a doorway dead unnoticed for hours
another who took his last breath on a cold jail floor
no one should die this way

another another under a bridge in an alley hidden by weeds
alone under a sheet of plastic abandoned to terrible loneliness
and the cold rain

no one should die this way

and as I stood on a corner chilled by anger and sadness
for my brothers and sisters whose lives have been trashed and abandoned
they should be here writing this poem instead
I hear them cry out through an old man's mouth
I'M NOT DEAD YET

Sarah Menefee

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12 

TRADING PLACES

There is a pristine cleanliness
That comes from digging through these mazes
This relentless naughty jungle that keeps hostages
Of folks that are mightier and penniless
A purity of soul transcends them
hovers  over the sticky hot cement
Possibilities rise up from the sweaty pavement
where people hold there hands out
working hard barely moving in active
participation of grassroots tithing
consumed by meekness and hostility
despising and worshiping themselves
day after dingy day
the monotony collides with hypnotize
an unavoidable meditation
 of what it is to be without
to be lifted up  to fly away outside
this  body that  offends some
that most everyone ignores
that might rise up above the masses
and you'll confess the secrets about these trenches
shouting out betrayals and inadequacies
into the wind into the ear of god
you could tell the story of our lineage
how our once humble hearts were belittled
and now are humbled all over again
by the history of our grievances
the tale of our common sorrows
unashamed unadorned unapologetic

Anna Morrow

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13 

POVERTY

Poverty bought my lottery, ticket. writing uplifted hurting, emerging.
searching through books to rescue stories buried deep in shame. poverty
gave social services my name.

Time trys to trap my rhyme, won't b a mime 4 da 9-5 ride.

Stress needs rest, rethinking how to organize mess of past relations with
press, my ex. moving on to the next , I press.

Incarceration epidemic sickens nations with investations of violations.

Police canceled yo lease, ceased possessions, release demanded from zoo
cages.

Words fly with birds not just nerds, unlocking the will to flirt again,
again.
Poverty locked me in a cage.
Words fly with birds
release my RAGE!

Jewnbug

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14 

CAN'T REST

I can't rest
My disabled brothers and sisters
Are dragged, shot and beaten to death

Society is scared of him
Big, black and mentally ill
Take him away and give him more pills

I can't sleep
My disabled brothers and sisters are living on the streets
The ADA has done nothing for me

Listen to my life

Got raped in a shelter
Got robbed on the streets
Three strikes and now I'm in prison for life

I can't rest
28 million dollars for Ed Roberts' Campus
Can't even get my SSI cause I have no address

Does anybody care
Disabled youth abused in foster care
Segregated in school now I'm on welfare

My disabled brothers and sisters are put to rest
On the streets, in psychiatric wards and in prison
But I feel your spirit and anger in my chest

I won't rest
Your spirit and anger won't rest
We won't let you rest

Leroy F. Moore, Jr.

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15 

I AM FREE BUT MY HANDS ARE TIED

THEY SAY THAT I AM FREE
BUT THEY WON'T LET MY HANDS GO
THEY TRY TO KEPT ME WITH AH BLIND FOLD
AND SAY DON'T GO WHERE THEY GO
TRUTH BE HOLD IS THE TRUTH REALLY BEING TOLD
NO MATTER WHAT IT MAY BE
YOU TOOK FROM THE PEOPLE NO GIVE
IT BACK THREE TIMES FOLD
I'M SO HOT I COULD SCOLD
I'M FEELIN BIG THAN BOLD
YOU SAY WO WE'VE BEEN HERE BEFORE
BUT NOT LIKE THE FIRST
THE MATTER HAS GOTTEN WORSE
WE NEED TO DO MORE THAN CURSE
WE GOTTA HIT'EM WHERE IT HURTS
WE NOT STEPPIN ASIDE
WE NEED TO STEP AND STRIDE
WE CAN NOT HIDE FROM THE FACT
WE THEY AIN'T TO HAPPY CAUSE WE BLACK
THEY WANNA SEE US ON OUR BACKS
YOU CAN BE STRAPED
BUT IS THAT REALLY THE WAY TO GO ABOUT IT
YOU CAN SCREAM AND SHOUT ABOUT IT
BUT DO THEY HEAR IT
OR FEAR IT IF YOU GET NEAR IT

Joseph Perryman

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16 

NEW SIGH

Gooey cheese melt, sweet New York rumshake,
Goes easily butter smooth Mmmmmm,
Gave my girlfriend some,
Her sigh is a new sound to me.

Joseph Bolden

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17 

STOP

I'm not sure
when I stopped..
grievin'
or see-ing
or believ-ing

that the pain of poverty would not
STOP..

un-til
I could
Start

talkin'
and fightin'
and rightin'
what's
NOT..

Tiny

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18 

POOR MAN'S BLUES

POVERTY
if you rich-it's a novelty
if you poor- it's a state of mind:
you just sitting by the polluted bay
and doing your time...

And you think that it's not a crime
But the cops think just the opposite
and they give you stress:

"Guess what."

"What?"

"Just guess..."

"O-o-o...?"

"You've got to move! Move your fucking piece of shit RV, camper, junk car.
The neighborhood businesses are complaining."

"And if I don't, then what?"

"If you don't we'll give you a little education called incarceration."

"Policeman, listen, it's a public street. I've got the rights too..."

"You shut the fuck up. Your words amount to nothing. If you don't move by
tomorrow you will experience a deep sorrow."

VLAD POGORELOV

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POケ POETS is a project of POOR Magazine
255  9th St., San Francisco 94103
415 /346.3740  poormag@sirius.com
http://www.poormagazine.org
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--
STREET SHEET
A Publication of the Coalition on Homelessness, San Francisco
468 Turk Street, San Francisco, CA 94102
415 / 346.3740 - voice -- 415 / 775.5639 - fax
streetsheet@sf-homeless-coalition.org
http://www.sf-homeless-coalition.org

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