Roadside Bomb KBOO pilot program

A podcast of Roadside Bomb’s KBOO FM pilot program has been uploaded to Elohi Gadugi Internet Radio. The program was aired on April 20th at 10 am.

Roadside Bomb is a hot Portland anti-war poetry group featuring Patricia McLean, Heidi X, Fred Nemo, Duane Poncy, Anais Piaff, Brigid Whipple, and others. Check it out.

the american way

oh say can you see
through the rockets red glare,
through the bombs bursting in air,
through your patriots cold stare
all the dead children lying there?
all the little osamas fair?

here on the ramparts i stand
here in this holiest holy land
just another american man
with my automatic weapon in hand
here i stand in god’s good grace
with a smile upon my face

and before i blow you away
I just have this to say
ciao baby, have a nice day
no hard feelin’s ya hear me jose?
no hard feelin’s, it’s the american way
it’s the american way

duane poncy, january, 2006

window shopping

see the pretty lights
says the pretty little girl
see the pretty things mama
        in the window
skips on by
        I am too young to be
        unemployed at christmas
        too old to find a job
        ten dollars in my wallet
        I’ve given up on holidays
        but still have eyes that get blinded
        by the glitter
see the pretty things mama
        in the window
all the pretty things
        in the window
there’s something I need
there’s something I want
        in the window
a new teddy bear
        in the window
a glass bauble
        in the window
gimme that doggie
        in the window
a new fairy tale
        in the window
a new computer
a new windows computer
with windows on the world
of thing to want
of things to need
        in the window
some new friends
        in the window
a new life
        in the window
a new cliché a fifty k
vacation in cancun
with the nude dancing girl
at nude girlies dot com
give it a whirl
might be the bomb
might be the bomb
        in the window
the happiness
        in the window
a candle
        in the window
a whole world
        in the window
a whole new world
        in the window
a world without desire
        in the window
a world without hunger
        in the window
a world without war
        in the window
a whole new world

in the window

©2005, Duane Poncy

no strings attached

outside my window
spider dances
on her invisible thread
as I search
for the strings
        of information
which make sense of this world
but unlike the spider
I intrude
these strings are not mine
though I know what lies
        at their end

I enter the letters of the string
and each letter itself
is a string of ones
        and zeroes
of electronic gates
which allow current
to pass or not
like the synapses
        the images
on the cortex of the brain
I click a button
which is not a button
but yet another string
        the physicist says
that all is string
not the numerical string
of the mathematician
but a symphony
of invisible strands
one electron to another
across the vastness
of time and space

and yet always
at the end of my search
the lure of the casual encounter
the dancing spider
        come to me
        she beckons
no strings attached

© 2005, duane poncy

waiting for the max

she leans against a post
waiting for the downtown train
puffs her cigarette
in short nervous bursts
pushes a web of blonde hair
from her once-pretty
addiction-pocked face
pale blue eyes darting
furtively seek some escape
brush mine
for the briefest encounter
I feel her wet tears
against my cheekbone
taste their salt on my tongue
I want to say to her
we are all drowning, my dear
as if this cliché
might be some comfort
as if those eyes
given a hold
would not pull
even a swimming man under

© 2005, duane poncy

to the poet

our words matter
I know
you may think
this goes without saying
but you would be wrong
it must be said
again and again
        our words matter
                they are testament
to this collateral damage
        that is us

not to our neglected schools
or the hovels of the poor
or the bombed out houses
        of the iraqis
but the wreckage of us
of our hearts and our minds
and our torn out guts

we like to think we have chosen
to live out here on the edge of things
on the street corners
and coffee houses
and living rooms of the dying
we become smug
and sanctimonious
speak the language of the hipster

but the language of jazz
becomes the language of the man
the lexicon of privilege
the words of ad agency cool hunters
taking the pulse
        is it alive?
                will it sell?
can it be repackaged
or is the damage too great?
the shrapnel too close to the heart?

©2005 Duane Poncy