Tag Archives: US History


Lemonade on the verandah after supper,
discussing Rousseau and Voltaire
before retiring to the soft embrace
of an easy langour;

Expecting tomorrow and its harvest
of promise,the lush savannah
the tall sheaves and sturdy horses,
and yet that tomorrow never came;

No matter how much we believed
and what we believed was enough,
but what they believed was much more,
we recall with wounding monotony
those men of honour
whose sabres broke too soon,
those chivalric figures whose
steeds wearied in the long campaign;

We recall those shards of splendour smashed,
held captive in museum-cased aspic,
the haunting echo of a terpsichorean melody
vanished and gone into The Wilderness;

Mene mene tekel upharsin
those heirs of promise,
weighted in the balance
and found wanting;

The visions of Daniel,
the words of Ezekiel,
prophetic and predestined,

Lemonade on the verandah after supper,
discussing Rousseau and Voltaire
before awakening to
the dawn of a new day,
and grey.

Dustbowl ( Rebooted as The Dust Bowl 18/12/18 )

The names and their faces
those times and their places,
the rundown rail depot
from where the last westbound left
in that dry-cracked goodbye summer
when water was heaven
and wells coughed their
grinding choking echo,
dust for a future
that had yet to be;
In those places and their times
heavy inked portraiture faces
made indistinguishable by
careless careworn thumb and fingers
of the ones chosen to
witness their passing,
so that records were kept
for whoever would come after
to research rediscover
those times and their places,
shrouded names and their faces
down by the rail depot
in that dry-cracked summer
when the westbound whistled its goodbye.

(Louis Kasatkin has asserted his Right to be recognised as the author of this work)

Dallas Book Depository ( 22 November 1963 )

He’s Got 30 Minutes For Lunch;
Miguel the janitor called in sick
so there’s nobody to talk to again.

There’s 20 Minutes Left For Lunch;
Hunched over brown paper-bag pastrami,
again,on rye that’s gone stale
and a warm Dr.Pepper.

There’s 15 Minutes Left For Lunch;
A seersucker-suit came round yesterday,
checking ID’s,he didn’t check the lockers
figuring nobody would steal any of the books.

There’s 10 Minutes Left For Lunch;
Tomorrow he can have something different,
he’ll ask when he gets home,
though not in time tonite for “Bonanza”
and “I Love Lucy” because of the crowds.

There’s 5 Minutes Left For Lunch;
Over now at the window he looks
down onto the Plaza,the motorcade’ll
be here soon!..he panics..where’s the locker key?
It’s right here..

Lunch Is Over;
He takes out the package,unwraps it,
opens the window,he’s sorry that
he didn’t get to show Miguel
the Janitor what was in the package..
They’re here now!!..
He aims the .303

(an early performance work of mine,circa,autumn 1999;macabre?erm.yes;I never could get the hang of sloppy lurve perms..)

Lakota ( Re-booted 20 July 2018 )

The bitter dusts of war

the bitter dusts of famine,

pierce men’s skins

swirling in their hearts

with a coyote chorus

of forgotten words,

forgotten peace;

The Winds of corpses

and the Winds of souls,

howl with their forgotten promises

across our empty hunting grounds

where the promises of Buffalo

gave way to certainty of steel;

The blood of our braves

and the blood of heaven,

moisten barren earth

placing a veil of green

on the lamentation of widows

and their inheritance of dreams.