Tag Archives: outlaw poetry

October 18, 2015 (for Mulu)

And you will die with the Star of David

Twisting before your eyes

Blood on a stretcher

In the middle of Beersheba’s

Final countdown

Of a night it not only owned,

But created in the 67th year

Of the century before

A century when all things came to a head

Like teeth

 

The fatal blow was not the sound

Of lost little shoes doing a jagged tap-dance

Along the gravel at Dachau

But hearing the words of its Nazi guard

Echo in the mouth of a Jewish spinster

Who achieved a crooked morning glory

By sending the final death blow

Into the body of a Brown Man

With a boot heel that had

More certainty than Meursault

An Arab, an African –

All the same

Israel’s arid assurance

As crooked and brisk

As von Verschuer’s scalpel

Rattling on the limbs

Of the bloody mantra

“You will die with the star of David

Burning in your eyes”

Mulu Habtom Zerhoma, a wounded Eritrean, is evacuated from the scene of an attack in Beersheba, Israel, on Oct. 18, 2015. [AP Photo/Dudu Grunshpan]

Mulu Habtom Zerhoma, a wounded Eritrean, is evacuated from the scene of an attack in Beersheba, Israel, on Oct. 18, 2015. [AP Photo/Dudu Grunshpan]

*

So this is how we live.  This is what goes on.  Everywhere, somewhere.  Israeli security officials said a 21-year-old Arab citizen of Israel, opened fire in a southern Israeli bus station, killing an Israeli soldier and wounding 10 people. Zerhoma died of his wounds after an Israeli security guard fired at him, apparently thinking he was the shooter!  CCTV revealed an Israeli security guard shooting this African man as he crawled on the ground and outraged Israeli news sites said the man was kicked by bystanders as he lay in a pool of blood. ‘We have sewed the seeds of Kitty Genovese’
Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I Want to Hear the Sound of Capitalism Dying

Judith Beheading Holofernes (1599) by Caravaggio

Judith Beheading Holofernes (1599) by Caravaggio

I want to hear the sound of Capitalism

Dying

As it takes its last breath

I want to hear Angels – not singing

But flapping their wings

As they commemorate the end of a

Wicked carnival

A station-agent’s sunrise

As he tip-toes into a new orange glow

Of possibilities

I want to hear the death rattle

Of the Unconscious

And the shimmer

Of their warped souls

Taking leave of their lovely

But contorted bodies

Hands that could not help

Legs that could not jump

Mouths that could not

Utter words of love

Eyes that could not see

No matter where they looked

I want to hear

The beating

Of hearts

Instead of the vulgar

Clichés

And expected yarns

Of Self-Hatred

And all that makes

The Ghettoes

Glow

With ripe ideas

For a Television series

That will cash in

As it pushes out

All that I’ve sworn to fight against

I want to hear the shovel

Kiss and hug the dirt

Before malevolent coffins

Are lowered in

Just barely deep enough

To be covered

But close enough that the wild dogs

Will have something still

To find

When we have vacated this

Awful experiment

Called the 21st century

I want to hear my lover’s morning stretch

Her smooth sigh

That sends the only real vibrations

I am still able to feel

Straight up my spine

Between the yawling drone of

Ambulances at 1AM

And young women

Who should know better

Cursing

Not like drunken sailors

But the way a 17 year old boy

Might

Convinced

That his mother won’t hear him

I want to hear my darling’s wishes

Not her fears

But the gentle breathe of her desires

Still healthy and fertile

But beginning to show

Just a tiny bit of dust

I want to hear them released

And fulfilled

Instead of a motorcycle

That thinks

My city block

Is a suburban

Parking garage

Or Caribbean Island

I want to hear the sound of Hollywood

Dwindling

Not crashing down

But receding

Slipping into the earth

Like quicksand

Incurring the politicians

To realize that

Their days, too,

Are numbered

I want to hear my thoughts

In a language

Only I can claim

As my own

As the rage in my head

Calms down

And

Numbered like a lithograph

Takes stock of itself

I want to hear the sweet sound of demolition

So I can pray

That the next city

Built

Is one we can

Be proud of

Or one

We gladly

Wait

To rot

*

Originally published on Thomas Vaultonburg’s Outlaw Poetry blog, Zombie Logic.

Tagged , , , , , , , , ,

Fragments Vol. 1

My latest series of poems “FRAGMENTS” (Vol.1)  was recently published in Rosalie Gancie & Carlo Parcelli’s avant-garde art & political journal, FLASHPOINT MAGAZINE, issue #17.

DL Kangalee directing Numa Perrier in an early rehearsal [photo by Nina Fleck,2014]

DL Kangalee directing Numa Perrier in an early rehearsal [photo by Nina Fleck,2014]

                 “There’s only one problem with man: the fact that he keeps going on.
                …I’ve been a frozen man a long time, at least since my last suicide attempt.”

                                                            — from “The Frozen Man”

 (as featured in the digital chapbook, Fragments Vol. 1 – available in Flashpoint Magazine #17 – online now)

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

So Much Beauty to Offer, But too Ugly To Move

Just remember to write, tuck the face, face the soul

Until the foul
Erodes

Like the million splintered tiny silver angels that floated on that morning when everything changed.

Receive the vision so you may heal the tribe
Write the stories only if you feel the vibe
But don’t outsource your soul

Not everyone
Can have
An Elephant Man

so stay down in the trench and come up just once when night appears
or the day the sun has decided to make you his ally.

 

"A Kangalee Mourning" [photo by Nina Fleck, 2009]

“A Kangalee Mourning” [photo by Nina Fleck, 2009]

*this poem was originally published in the Outlaw Poetry Network

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

A Rhyme Inside A Screaming Brain

…Are you waiting for the flood?
While the news goes gaga
& our brains turn to mud?
As the neighbors turn on their TVs
& cultivate their fears
I’m going to come up with a plan
and destroy museum tears
Cause humanity is aching
It’s been dying all this time
since Columbus called it Trinidad
& colonized our minds
We’ll be watching our funerals
our criminal descent
into the land of amusement
& some kind of weird gaga death

*

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Another Revolt, The End of Song, No More

Another Revolt, The End of Song, No More

My latest “haiku” had the honor of being published in the Poets Basement section of “Counterpunch,” a wonderful Left wing publication. 

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

My Philosophy

dark corners of a dollar bill
the edge of a love poem
the inside of a napkin
reasons we create for believing its all worth it

those who cannot win
(not because they’re unable to compete
but because they know
inside
there’s no reason to)

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

“What Happened to the Brother on the Block? (The NY Horror Vol.1)” – Spoken Word Recording

“What happened to the brother on the block? He turned into a Starbucks!”

Inspired by the Twilight Zone, the comedy of Pryor & Mooney, Theater of the Absurd, & the Folkways Spoken Word Recordings, this darkly-poetic satire about corporate-friendly gentrification in “21st Century Urbana” was recorded in one take in May 2010 and was mixed by Isaiah Singer, who applied spare musical arrangements and sound effects to support the “surreal midnight vulnerability” of Kangalee’s reading. The result is a perfect introduction to Dennis LeRoy Kangalee’s dramatic spoken word and fiction.  It was the first installment in a series detailing the gross bizarre suburbanization of NYC and, of course, led to his theatrical realization of “Gentrified Minds(The NY Horror Vol.2)” which includes an abridged version of this story via his now abandoned persona, the ‘Nomad Junkie’. .

Read an excerpt of the original story here.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

The Best Thieves

The best thieves are never heard of, spoken about, written up, or remembered.
They’re unheard of legacies existing largely in the minds of
courageous and misled orphans of crime.
Not greedy or proud, but afflicted and torn

Between the road of Art
& the cul-de-sac called Hell.

They have no empires to build or flags to raise.
Just a conscience to bear,
maybe a diaper
to change.

Tagged , , , , , , , ,

I Wasn’t Shocked When I Heard The Congresswoman Had Been Shot

I don’t know why but my heart sank when I read he’d used the term Ad Hominem.

On the bus, in the grave, below a lunchroom doorway or within the scheme of park — a part of me rustled. I watched his face on the screens above the mildew & steam rising from the machines, I missed the rinse cycle but didn’t care & my eyes were hurt and glossed and I couldn’t make out the fuzzy framed picture on the TV.

All I could do
was fold
& smooth
the edges of
my underwear,
smell the fabric of the toothen-caved-towel
& just mumble to myself that it’s all going to pass
cause it always does
But a part of me felt a little like a cheat,
a doused bunny who’d gotten away,
a mouse in a big house,
a tangle cherry-tree
still standing after the storm.

A part of me felt for him in a way I probably shouldn’t and I wondered what I would have done had I really known him, had I been his friend once or his enemy, his neighbor, or his bandmate, his dealer, his girlfriend, his mother, his father.
And I recalled my own self-important blues and irritating holler of my twenties, my unhinged moments of lucidity, my righteous breakdowns, my challenge of truth, my call to arms…But I was certain my shrill-shrill call was no false alarm, my anger not bitter hatred, my contempt not imaginary — but valid.

“He’d read Orwell & Huxley.”
Who hadn’t?
He was just probably the only one who understood it.

He read Mein Kampf.
Not David Lerner’s poem, but the book by the man who came to be known as the face & name of the twentieth century, the man single-handedly credited for inciting the zeitgeist, the man who made pop culture.

“There isn’t one brilliant mind on this planet who hasn’t read that book,” a college professor explained. “No one cared enough to help this lad as he was making his way down the crooked stairwell of sanity…everyone apparently was aware of his psychological demise or his mental sickness – “

Was it because they smelled just as bad?
If you’re both wearing the same cologne, how can you tell who’s sweat is filling the air?

Rhetoric doesn’t kill.
Apathy does.
And if betrayal is a mother fucker,
Denial is an assassin who will work for deferred pay –
But when he collects it is not currency he will want,
It is complicitness.

I have just one idea, let’s play a game:
Lets play the numbers game – I’m getting into that one now, I’m an American after all.
Nine years old? She was just nine years old?

I got you beat by 2 years just some months before: she was 7 years old murdered by police.
Who mourns for Aiyana Jones?

*

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
%d bloggers like this: