Bert Poetry

What happens next is the question. This can’t be decided in beat poetry sessions, flowing by candle light in abandoned property complexes, trying to get back to the point where you can say “I own” “I condone” “I’m complacent, you can tell by my tone” but you know whose happy with this? So and so and so and so's.

We have to come from behind the darkened night walls, we have to step to the light, correctly see the fight, the losing one, the insecure one, the battle of the fit, the most, the mighty.

We have to see the capitalist deity pushing down on the land from so far up—we say, “It’s a bird, it’s a plane, no, it’s the man, the police man, the congress man, the lawyer man, and in some ghettos, “My house was burned down by the fire man."

All these fools in control of the blue collar man, the working class man, the sloppy, yet distinguished man that will hopefully become a teacher if given time and space to flourish, if he’s not too worn down, if she’s not defeated, depleted, emotionally heated over her misinformed children brought up by a win or you’re a loser culture—if her sons don’t accidentally…kill each other.

Brother killing brother, person killing person, mother killing mother, and when does it stop, never, forever forever forever. I say it’ll take a lot more than mailing a bunch of letters. It’s going to take some kind of cultural destruction to make things better.