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I Am a Fact Not a Fiction
Selected Poetry by Edward Mycue

War and Peace


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After Time Is Ripe It Is Banished

Root did not eat down.

Now sit, judge.
Now the sky begins to split open.
Other than this is not now.
I do not know other than this.
Other: there where we are not.
Now, here is.

Nuclear swords, dialectic knots hang over candidates for Alexander’s shoes,
stare-into futures for accidents from yesterday’s tapestry.

Rot eats down, seasons scatter.
And we read in them, fraying.

Black mirrors, white minutes manure to loam.
Meat is absurd.
Of is from’s motive; what is why’s dance.

Ideas, nuclear ripe, coral mouthed, are blind windows.
Now sit in judgment on the past and out of that dark doorway
remember now is not elsewhere, we are not there
and do not know an elsewhere.

Now here is.
Other: there where we are not.
I do not know other than this.
Other than this is not now.
Now the sky begins to split open.
Now sit, judge.


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Snowblood

Burbling up through white
flattened Christ—
massy
crusted
hundred
inches of powdery snow

pillowing up around
the brown trunks
those thousands
of fir, pine, spruce
holly and yew
rises
a deep, warm

red shame of conquest
empire rising
to replace
a republic crucified

democracy became
a snowman
a showman

a deathmask
of snowblood.


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Blood Enemy

The enemy of my enemy
is my friend. The friend
of my enemy is my enemy.

The friend of my friend is
my friend (unless that
friend is a friend of the
friend of my enemy). The

feud of my family is
a breach in the friendship
of my blood. My blood is

my enemy? Is this the edge
of my world? How canine
is the tooth of my despair?
Where is a pulse for peace?


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A Century Is a Skull Factory

                    I
It’s another century, careless, rudderless
when what’s next is curtains
riding the night air
and victims living their injuries
sledding along like a shell in a swift stream
the color of coral, of flamingos
transparence twilled over and
intersecting recesses of hurt.

                    II
Discrete bits of elsewhere become
yellow tulips in a sodden light
that doesn’t equal dusk because it’s split
from a century like a skull floating like a factory
whose function is clotting
where optimal longings gather under a mask,

                    III
but first it curdles into a dance
of confusions called a CLINICAL TRIALS, “mono-
therapies” somewhat like
a mobius strip adder doubling on itself
as I sit wanting to fly from my speech into
silent brown eyes
flecked with gold
crosslegged
waiting
drifting on the current
like a flag.


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White Noise (Marketing A War)

there's “intellectual freedom”
and
“intellectual property”
and
the embargo and manipulation of both
plus
the attempt to create a hullabaloo
in order
to focus attention (called “a perfect storm”)
or at least
a buzz
the way “placement” does
in
a supermarket or a bookstore.

it's a control issue.
it really markets nothingness.
it's a colorless life
all gauded up and inauthentic.
it's trash and white noise


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Tale of Outlaws in the Commons

WHITE HOUSE AUGUST 28 1961 50 AMERICANS AGES TO ABOUT 30
HEAD FOR GHANA FIRST GROUP OUT OF PEACE CORPS VOLUNTEERS

Emphasizing peace not valorizing war nor exalting conflict

today summer august 6 2009 what is left of them now include
the tired, lame, halted waiting for god and some dancing bears

but many are still getting into someone’s face space and roots
as there is a looming deficit of good will since J.F. Kennedy

and an abalone moon is sinking into the western skyline as
the goodwill-to- the-world is remaindered into recontexualization
and sampling and appropriation as heirs to Nixon,Regan,Bush.

Those who can’t decide what to do could ask an ant as Michael Torrice wrote
in Science Now Daily News in its July 22 2009 dot org blog

and meanwhile go strawberrying, bake apple pies, smell tulips
or try to find a smell plus seek-out insect life of Florida

and don’t strive really nor sacrifice futile reality, but start afresh
and make new friends, renew you inquiring spirit, believe tomorrow

the way the defeated in the Pleissy vs.Ferguson believed they’d
ultimately defeat that “separate but equal” judgement in 1874.

As I write here in Pacific Daylight Time on the San Francisco Bay
we humans not just Americans believe the downswing will upswing

and now I hear the water sprite’s “Song To The Moon” for the 4-act opera
RUSALKA by Antonin Dvorak written 108 years ago lilting soaring

still hoping for some rightside-up in next year’s words/another voice
for that drowned maiden and reconciliation and end to remorse.

Still seeking an end of the foredefeated, of the usurpation and enjoyment
and use/profits of others, establishing the concept of ‘the commons’

because we are all outsiders in a small space as artist Richard Steger said
at a poetry reading in San Francisco’s Bird & Beckett Bookstore.

Now: I’ve come to the end of my light years, recalling Peace Corps time
and an outlaw in the commons of a global village, &then/now strike root.


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Do I Need a New Story, Victoria

for Alan and Eva Leveton and Victoria Mycue

From many angles, points of viewing, the rainbow is there.
I always try to be a glass carnation of perceptions.
My niece Victoria says changing cannot be forced.

You have to be realistic about what you are seeing
trying to accept and understand even when not agreeing.

What makes all the colors in rainbows? I don't live in the past.
The past lives on in me, many ways of seeing, many me's.
I live in the now, but who am I? Stories, some, get highlighted.

I have to become realistic about what I am seeing.
Living now, who am I who am influenced by these stories.

From each viewing step, something is highlighted. And angle.
Some things are obscured when we focus elsewhere.
When what is love is damaged there can be anger, eruptions.

I am influenced by other people’s stories as other peoples do.
Others combine, collide, ally, curdle, become crazed in me.

Our grandparents' blossoms. allegiances, angers can be we.
You have to be realistic about what you are seeing, she says,
trying to accept and understand even when not agreeing.

I'd asked if peace was possible, not "were" it possible.
I asked where's a pulse for peace fearing there was none.

Eva and Al, dear friends, said peace—she wrote "pulse"—
is often hard to find and you had to keep feeling around,
gently. Then feel some more. Never give up on the double P.

Victoria, dear niece, says be realistic about your seeing,
trying accepting, understanding even when not agreeing.


© Edward Mycue 2009

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