based on Ezra Pounds' CANTOS, and Amiri Baraka's novel - THE SYSTEM OF DANTE'S HELL
THE SYSTEM OF MISTER'S HELL was first written in 1999, and designed for publication by Lawrence Daniel Caswell, with images
by Alexis Savon. we sold some copies, perhaps a few hundred exist in its original form. last summer i unearthed the original manuscript in a lock box i'd set up and forgotten about it. so i've been slowly trying to find the time to re-imagine the intent. simply put, the hell of the son is the uncovered history of his father, and how it relates to the "system" used to govern democracies, namely the UNITED STATES. here are the first two Cantos.
-raw.
CANTO ONE
. . . when I came to stop below a hill
that marked one end of the valley
that had pierced my heart with terror,
I looked up toward the crest
and saw its shoulders already mantled
in the rays of that bright planet t hat shows
the road to everyone, whatever our journey
-Ezra Pound
rough and tangled so hard,
paved-ways lost in bright journeys
those sunny roads where truth hides
an old fear sinking
in the folds of human disgust.
when death is hardly more bitter
i'll tell you what i saw.
never telling of how i had come to this place,
shattered valleys below the hill of city,
terror with heart
the slits of young girl
feed family
thats how she learned
(for shock value ) taking me to myself
the tiny one that i had hidden in the search.
and the sinners hear its call
as regular as wind
sifting through the rare tree.
even as their martyr,
a christ with pierced hands
weighed down in the rare act.
rarely do trees kill,
for each line hold a little of you.
a regard still fleeing divine
love so we cannot see.
for its blind religion
a silent monster eats our young
to the motion of creation
dawns fill graves,
for sunlight is for fighting
someone's sons,
[THE] favorite daughter
giving head to greats
mastering to avail life from its own.
the tiny christ line holding
us apart, a second after using
the wrong word for belief.
a line could tell you history
if you had read the many(CANONICAL)
those pages that you love
but never hold in your mind.
but again i . . .
?
what did i come across on the hill?
a strange color had taken the men's faces
i'd only seen a few,
but those men
with shiny capital eyes
held the color of blood just under skin.
strange colored i,
had never seen blood
and still knew on sight.
maybe the smell of tasting bought wars
little lies kept in the tubes of tv
brought us a war, full coverage in bad wigs
hair all out showin' whose ape.
a man asked, " can you know a rain coming. i fell it in my bones."
his wallet had been snatched for the back pants pocket was torn.
i ran for i knew the answer was only his
and he had warned me as if a son.
in need of sowing. no country here.
its a long road for humanity when the bomb is dropped
and our god declares the victim as savage.
there's a small field far away from the picked man
i lay there my face to the world's ceiling
touch sky with eyes that claim your face
watching the cracks tiny lines in the armor of satan,
the world traveled claim/in god
just streets not fit to walk on.
the sound was clanging words
tell you of my madness. still walking in sweet fear of myself.
CANTO TWO
and i passed two men both holding poems out for me to see.
it had been several days since i had seen anyone living ,
no rest, so i stop to read them.
i could not see their face for the hoods they wore,
the fabric smelling of shot glasses,
the old basement meetings of junky revolutionaries.
first man's poem.
suliman dances
death’s wife
her sinful blood
staining flags
human/s often
see it as [a] her
purpose offer on up
feed the other storms
night.
four in a row.
A sign to women
who have lost their men
to the neighbor shore
from it ugly north
the allies red friend
sells his intellect
to the brown one
takes meals of brown
land to sell for more pounds
gives Satan reason to start listenin’
[demo] is the right word
sends aid to starving babies
the children of the west war
can we test the truth serum on that poem baby?
to ussy dreams out
exotic far days
when the nipple tasted mama
A Freudian slip of the tongue
still weep
let it be. strain
let it be then.
second man's poem
it has always been imperial
even on the continent
nature had fun with man
and left that in between free choice
will of mind a flower
hovers her head
she sells her promise
for stones to throw.
telling the secret
to the ones who listen.
it was Cuba, Africans were upset with?
well that ain’t new for who don’t
argue with themselves
the backed soviet must be Arab
just to prove the platform
when money loses hue to claim the heart
moving e w white to not matter in these parts
cuz his wife brought the checkbook, pen
to sign away sins
point to the [sir]name money
and it spends here
where the land is milk
cream of the worlds sweat
back, we fightin’
for the wrong end of the scraps
(and you know who was over most of that shit)
so . . . (god) was
at the gate askin’ to get buzzed in
they asked for the password
and he replied (BAIT) so he was in.
so (god) was in speakin’ of how to make the world
‘ bend the head of the greedy
for they east to eat all the land.'
yeah and touch her garment just so . . .
they’ll put you on their money and you
won’t have to buy in.’
in said-
“yo down in Babel to the tower touch the world and they get no farther,
still more fall in the light of tomorrow today just A past dream eating away all morals . . .”
what is [A]moral?
when written it sells UNholy ink
shell of idea
no moon no sea
a city of shiny stomachs
a line to feed.
