Prolecult
    Only in Moscow Food Stores
    V. Mayakovsky

How complex is that?
The lit-friendly factories,
plunking it out, 150,000,000.
Who didn’t know? –
the infestation shows
in cracks through clouds, above,
the gas-works’ walls, straight on starry paws from heaven.
The grave shift bell calls out “Now!”,
and we march in with
sonnets on our red lips
to match the Red Head’s painted face,
or catch her eye, her hovering on heels,
in the puddles of industry.
We, the pock marked ghosts ore paragraphs
between the lines in prolecult.

This is conspiracy without mercy,
building in the blood…
like religion crumbling all my doors a night,
gutting blames into explosions,
following in love, in darkness,
in technicalities of emotional release,
in meltdown – in love!, in love! –
The rhythm still like raindrops,
booming my explosions into love.
I can’t stand without it.

The revolution lied!
Nothing’s sustained by subsidized poets,
state factories, and true spirit.
Moscow, not love, broke on convention –
but only slowly.
Revolution? – like pictures looking back
through 150,000,000 drops of rain.
The heroes were rats, the czars slaves.
I am all of that:
a prolecultist in the distance of years and words.
The revolution! Long live the lie.

Warn the world this time.
Time has left.
My heart is off control. Burning.
Everything the revolution wanted…
approach with care, with
raindrops on your eyes.
Walk with stars against your feet,
wind like fingers on your breasts.
The whisper from your lips urges me on,
on into the flames. This revolution at
my skin. Your bullets pound into my flesh
beneath. Take no prisoners.

The world revolved,
tearing tracks into the space.
150,000,000 miles.
How complex is that?

r berk
Denver, Jan. 1997