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Shock Worker Poets Paleo-Radio Theatre Manifesto #1

John Sullivan

“I dream that I’m dreaming, I dream that I know, I dream that I understand...
Above us, the moon’s breast poured milk on the road to Santiago.
The night was queen and all was still to be made, to be dreamed,
to be struggled for.”

(Subcomandante Marcos responds to Don Antonio’s
“Story of Dreams”)

How long do we gnaw these stinking bones –
like drag-dog churls on the nod,
only much less noble?
How long do we beat our chops raw – when
our silence makes us seem even more stupid?
While the Big Bad Who goes stomp-stomp-stomp
across the neck of our yearning, flips our sweet
dreams into chronic nightmares, or infomercials
full of cuddle and lies, makes us scuffle sideways,
scuttle backwards – claws up like trapped crabs –
dodging hooks, jabs, slings and RPG’s
of the fully miraclized, duly deputized,
minions in their posh carnival-criminal skins.

Those dreams – their iconic auras – the full
killdozer of our shared magic screaming
revolutionary beam – we can only best explain
with more, better magic, see, it’s streaming,
now, streaming still, locked inside our genes
from way back when our lonely sad aminos
first found each other, snuggled up and kissed,
to birth this dream-struggle, to make our
ancient orb-world a not-born-dead-thing, born
live, born and truly kicking, and truly blind to
“I’ve got mine, now, get the fuck away from me –
go starve, go rot, go fade fast to black, or whatever.”

While suspicion, threat, delusional discord, hyper-
vigilance and no-no-no forgiveness, boil over
and explode up in the head of the polis, we feel / we’re
caught in this planetary trance of tazed, cray-cray,
whack /flabby-back-brained antimatter gigolos
playing their sonatas full of lies - like gloomy
obbligatos - on our poor medullas in the dark.
Like sanctified phrenologists, all of them –
so smug, so neurologically / ideologically normative
it’s like to poke you in your fucking eyes – there they

go again, on the make or on the lam, no duty to the dead,
to the dying, “done and dusted from the get-go” -
thus-shall-they-be-so-too.

Say, we may sorely lack the wine, but we
surely got sufficient faith, and more, to take
you on: you stone-toolers, screw-ballers,
self-fooling Rulers of Our World, soi disant
- you said as much, yourselves, before –
steady kicking rocks our way, stealing
all our hard fought love, steady stirring up
your pot o’ poison shit and calling it:
your God’s work, and our very own slop
for real fine dining. All the time, all the way,
just playing us like sham beat-boxers play
that ol’ scratchy-scratch. All of you, we’ve
seen, we’ve felt your boots, the catch and
sting of rocks in our faces, rocks in our
beds, so when we rise, shake off our sleepy
rictus, chuck the Big Bad Who’s “marmalades
of madness” straight back in that Big Who’s face,
and take again what was taken from us,
or distorted by force, or on the sly by law,
or some other kind of fully-sanctioned
“stick-it-to-the-rubes” racket – hey, don’t you
look so surprised, so deflated, so chagrined
when that slim chance-to-dim’s arrived, and -
¡que chingada way! - we’ve finally seen through
all your lies.

That musty old social contract: John Locke, you
been so naïve, of late, sleeping hard in your
coffin – gypsy coins and dust laid across your eyes –
but you / we never signed-on, so’s it all
seems null, now, dead, all but buried
in sod and bones. The old bond between
us all – if ever such it really was / however really
much – becomes bond-age, babble, empty words
/ blank hollow brain-echo reverb.

The root of here & now is a new point of emergence.
Our heads & hearts pop-up-out of that old
beehive of pain / that same drool-matrix / that
conscious-coma enveloping cannibal brain-feast
where we’ve been dulled down, and lulled
 

back to sleep with romper-room buzz, sealed
in our separate Samahdi tanks, splayed out
on our backs, surfing warm waves
of disremembering.

Soon we will stroll around free, arm-in-
arm, with other free-beings, while “love
puts on its faces,” and shouts out to
the free-ones: don’t fear, no more, you
don’t have to live alone, no more, now,
we’re going to crack the skin and lift
the piss right out of this archaic, dead,
defunct old world, so tired in its creepy-
shabby plaid hat, its clackity teeth, its
old-man sad-sad cough. Those other free
beings that we need to fully be entirely
ourselves – they will appear and make
the show with us. And they will be more
than they appear to be, more than they
seem when you first lay startled
eyes upon them.

But don’t believe me, just because I said this.
Don’t believe anything, just jump
and learn about it later. You’ve read the
world all through, you’ve watched the world
in action, you’ve heard all the talk-talk-talk
in the world go down. Once you know, you
can’t turn back. It’s time, now, it’s a fact:
you’ve got to go and do.

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