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The Cicerone Covering the Action
(for S.T.)

J. Quinn Brisben 15 MAY 2004

To cover the action from beginning to end
The cicerone must invoke a host of dead:
Willie preaching through the bullhorn almost
Against his will but sorely tempted by gospel,
Joanne blind and growling, needing no bullhorn
Just a few comrades for action against the beast,
Toothless Chris freeing himself after years of
Imprisonment by a deaf-blind, unfeeling system,
One of the earliest, the kid whose SSI check
Got cashed after he died and won us a victory,
One of the latest, John with no legs and one finger
Driving here by himself, showing off his articulated kids,
And the Texas good buddy in war-paint and camouflage
Who bonded with the cicerone for three days in jail,
Above all Wade with that hippie angelic mop
Who healed himself by making others whole;
All present, all representing each other, all
Living inside the living as action is planned.

Targets are picked, mechanics are alerted, permits
Are granted or denied which does not matter for
We go there anyhow, hotels are booked, cardboard
And marking pens collected, releases written, egos
Massaged, airlines warned about mishandling chairs,
Bus companies reminded that they are not above the law
Even though they contribute to the very powerful,
Vans ready for thousands of miles, new attendants
Instructed in pushing and lifting and feeding,
For everything must be planned, especially the unplanned;
The cicerone, expert at nothing except old stories
And connecting this fight to thousands of others, is told
He will get a free drink of cool water in hell
For every time he feeds a palsied or paralyzed comrade,
Every time his bad legs make it an extra mile, the old
Bladder an extra hour, the old despair stays in check.

This will, like creation, take six days:
A day for coming and greeting, for we are
Slower at coming than most and need more rest,
A day for orientation, collecting legal papers,
So the cops will know about our meds, a rally
With banners and important people to fill
A news hole that would much prefer trivia
(We stopped being cute a long while back)
Three days of actions, with backup actions
In case of court orders, early capitulation,
The foul-ups that happen even to the best:
Cops go crazy, wheelchairs die, wrong corners turned;
But we are good cavalry, deaf Erich guiding in sign,
Blind Frank counting curbs until we suddenly wheel
And block the street with a line of power chairs,
Their ignition keys carefully hidden, the cicerone’s
Big butt on his big bench, reassuring greenhorns,
And there are always new ones freeing themselves,
More than replacing the dead, becoming citizens,
Refusing pity, yelling slogans, the cops helpless,
Wondering who trained us, where we got our moves,
Getting joke answers from the cicerone referring to Samson
At the temple, Crazy Horse’s flanking attack, the big
March in ’63, Bull made Steer in the hosed-down park,
All relevant and all one to him, little Spitfire
Ready to be busted because she heals that way,
And the cicerone knowing when he is printed and mugged
Someone is taking all of them very seriously;
Even with a media blackout the word spreads
And the powerful tremble for, Brecht was right,
They have hard hearts but weak nerves, the wall
Withstanding a thousand blows, then crumbling
With the next tap and the next trumpet blast,
For the dead march with us always, and the new ones
Keep coming until we win this way or another.

Then a final party with dervish wheelchairs,
Pledges to meet for another of these later
But not much later, and another slow day of going.
Next time more dead, more living, more hope.



Scars Publications


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