Brad Hamers


Art as a revolutionary tactic.



twisted in the cord  (delete heard ‘round the world)

dead torpedos sleep in uniform
red tuxedo, rented to perform
unworn ground mine
undetonated land whale
watch me beach mountains
carrying everything in front of me
and the rented unicorn

miles of stage
killed ographers   of sand stuck in shoes
and creases in the mirage,
with very fine sandpaper,
we carve out our breath for one another
try to ride the same raft
floating in the same rash
in the (insulated) bubble  of blown out symbols
printing paper
cuts for
the already cut in half
catch me climbing beached mountains
watching lighthouses fade
in the industry of gone
in ocean plastic pants
(up to our neck)

deep dog breath
paddle back in  
for charge-less breakfast
chew staples, gnaw attractive clocks
complimentary meet
and drop bones

dead ideas sleep in uniform
undetonated ideas never sleep at all
watch the ticking ground, up underneath you

blood red tuxedo
can feel the ground(up meat) thru the microphone
shock and brimstone hat
hard on the aw and yea
can you feel me trying to tip or float
“i gave it all up for the”
depends on the stage
hope, file, save     (,hope,dial,slave)

(signed,  Plenty Slack Rope)

performer in un-uniform
push heaviest stage
drag bloodiest costume through barely seen and some felt,
the layers of underlayment,   singing for the tips (and thrown life floats)
where the tool hits subject
where the would sands back down to plank

And for those who jump
And for those who jump

shrink ideal
pharma-even-keel
keeping shadows under heel   
bury hurried feelings for the ceaseless stagnant smile
top ten bones to pick  
on the doctor’s playlist
writing yourself off    
washed up under the bridge
smacked with a stack of scripts  ,  a financed fist
up   where paper make sign
(where sign enforces direction)   

the army’s bullets are bourgie
sporting sun hats ’n soaking in pie flavored smoothies
the republic’s jacuzzi weighs a ton
oppressive crown molding and fake scholar sconce
hottest pool heat
we’re dunce
cornered and all me me me
assuming and snooty
child’s pose and doctor’s consult
all that and wolves meat
every bone hung out to dry

real muscle rides in limos
the limited imagination stretched
like a rubberband around a ball of rubberbands
pulls up to the same window
yesterday bounces back like a bad check
cancel police  (the majority of us don’t enforce the books we read)
shade is security for some, power and control a family tree
the majority of us don’t feel the fruit on our branches
the hand in our hands, death was debt to most, living was a payment plan
to owe death (your) life  
when the only way to breath is to exhale

the only way to live is to let go



------------------------------------------------------------


Pleather Beretta

linen shotgun rancher
came too take his green land back
riding an invisible indian  and combing a pet god
sticking feathers in dead birds
bald on their last good word

cotton handgun rancher
farmer of property  and harvester of great culture
came to, on a capital I sculpture of himself
posing as a building (an aging mini-mall
who identifies as a sky-scraping landmark)
sticking time in dead boxes
coming up bald in camera flashes

silk semi automatic assault farmer
rifling thru earth      with his patriarchal teeth,
red and blue  to the root
property marker for a spear
(home-team skin) (call all wands swords)
pay the pipeliner
dress the drag in unshrinking swords

beg the tip with dollar bills

a two thousand forty pound million

linen oozie Rig
in the middle of the at-lunch-(ick) ocean
full belly swimming in tin foil and cracked pottery
everything stood up on the hairy side of pacified
limp shovels, deflated circles, and all

arms around a sugar cane in a salt suit
anything to make the blood taste better

dad
drops a piece of bread
kiss it up to the fda
to the (approved) harsh-mellow walls 
and swamp-front fema camp views
beg the rip with needles or swords

a fist full of twenty pound millions

a sac of native heads
wool dagger
smallpox farmer
life poacher
bringing the flesh(ed out idea) to a boil
memory-foam revolver
something warm and convenient to sleep at night

copper pepperbox political grazer
came thousands dollar horse and steak(e)
to take back Burn
to vaseline the exploitation
to oil up the oil
in a new dinosaur’s tank
(far from middle)
living nowhere

corduroy switchblade
nylon pick-axe
dollar dad     
drops another piece of bread

fist it up to the empty hole in you
to the noise of the State you fill it with
your custard constitution and whipped c.r.e.a.m.
I was born in this pool, it’s mine
die yourself and you only

thousand thread comfort(er) shotgun
sawed off work-hard fingers and the master’s tongue
lick every word asleep
combing a Algonquin scalp
tilling the rich rock

wearing a paper shirt

thumbs green with blood



  (what are your weapons made of?!)



-------------------------------------------------------------------


Famous Light Switch

suicide forest
sadness row
most beautiful sink hole
stubborn tourist in (one of) Yellowstone’s
hot spring(s)
record temperature winter
hopped up on jumping off
golden goose dive, backward swan, into the moving  gate
going under and
coming back up for air
(waiting to be buzzed in)
going under
and staying under
nusle bridge
beachy head
angel of the gap
mount mihara
aokigahara forest
four-mile mr. chen (w/ binoculars)
‘maid of the mist’s bloated side-business
22 veteran falls a day
niagara gap
prince magnet’s viaduct
luminous veil
lover’s leap
so we’ll film it
put up a fence & security cameras
“can I help you in some way?”
“no way to be sure”    
(some same pitch cry)
suicide tourism
(bureaucratic assist)
list of cliffs and hawk nests
‘risk of fatal fall’
broken-neck hotline
‘deliberate jump’
i put my backyard chair in direct line with the Douglas Fir
(over the neighbor &)
across the street
toponymy sky moving quickly behind it
‘state your bridge for the record’
(name all your passed on for the record)

drowned hat
did you tie on rocks
or just take a deep breathe of water
did you tear up in the river
list of tall sweat shops
where we come to a point
dance on it
then jump

off

and
on               

forever



-------------------------------------------------------------


Exquisite Corpse 16 (Latent News Redux)


On Oorah 30th, 20AllTeens,  a fence and shovel of two was shot at oink blank range in a relatively quiet gentrified area of Menthol Heights, Spinnesota.

The bacon's name was CoughUpsyrup Everyday Dad, (worked for his dependence, and was loyal to it)  he was Performing a Traffic-Stop-agit-prop piece on a pedestrian who - it was later discovered - was a human being, Dad’s gun didn't even have a chance to grab its head and think.


It could be the super bowl test of self-reliance: Three Skittish pillagers are risking their own lives in the toxic waste oceans they, with good hearts, created,   to now measure the amount of Fire and Melt we have left.

The trademarked PR dream team is on a drunk-tank-stay with a one hundred forks hike ahead of them to their equated estimation of a North or South Pole.   


Any Amy Harms was straight-jacketed and scorched-bathed in rich folk water in 2thousandPreTeen when she ‘poor-commuted’ past Clobb County cops who were questioning a wake of buzzards circling over a (thrown out) piece of the american pie.

Audio from one of the Clobbers, recorded on the nightstick’s dashcam, has the apple in him saying, “This isn’t really happening.”


While the butter soft ‘fuck the police’ stampede continues into co-opted gravy, the false narrative that the world can take it’s own temperature waits for scientist’s nurses to spread their ass cheeks, global paradigmatic consciousness change  - still warm reports show the military has crusaded beyond the debate.

The Only Press reports today that “to the slave’s masters, the debate over cultural change is long dead.”


WASHINGUN:

We now know that The Inevitable Convict was more misunderstood than a menace or martyr, but that won’t stop Limp fingers from pushing grubby money buttons and apologetically singing “this hugged tree will be my house,”  (in the named key of “Help.”)

The need somebody teen in BurningSun, MissedJourney, allegedly robbed a high thief, attacked a white slice of bread and was made toast (cremated) while resisting false arrest.


————————sources:

“On July 30, 2014, a husband and father of two was shot at point blank range in a relatively quiet residential area of Mendota Heights, Minnesota.”
“The man’s name was Officer Scott Patrick, and he was performing a traffic stop on a driver who—it was later discovered—was a wanted fugitive. Patrick didn’t even have a chance to grab his gun.”   ——TheBlaze.com
“It could be the ultimate test of human endurance: Three British explorers are risking their lives in subzero temperatures to measure the melting Arctic ice cap.”
“The team is on a three-month, 621-mile (1,000-kilometer) hike to their final destination at the North Pole.”    ——CNN.com
“Amy Barnes was jailed and held in solitary in 2012 when she called out "fuck the police" as she bicycled past Cobb County cops who were questioning a suspect by the roadside.”
“Audio from one of the officers, recorded on the cruiser's dashcam, has him saying, "That ain't happening.”   -—boingboing.net
“While the corporate media continues to keep alive a false narrative that the world's scientists are still divided over global climate change - new reports show the military has moved beyond that debate.”
“The Associated Press reports today that "to the world's military leaders, the debate over climate change is long over."  -—commondreams.org
WASHINGTON:
“We now know that Michael Brown was much more of a menace than a martyr, but that won’t stop liberals from pushing an anti-police narrative that harms the black poor in the name of helping them.”
“The black teen in Ferguson, Mo., robbed a store, attacked a white police officer and was shot dead while resisting arrest.”  -—wallstreetjournal.com




-----------------------------------------------------------




slit the done day like a carcass to sleep in
pitch a chalet on parchment with pen meat and
hit the replay on a bone to pick
cheap stew, poor talk and old thrills     
mixed up in  the gut of things     (she washed her regrets out in the run off from an ‘ol abandoned building)

awash

the rivers no longer know our clothes
the wildest things left about us were our emotions
concealed (by mountains) like valleys
terra nullius, guarded and with admission fees like national parks
her suppressed anger (and sense of violation) was aboriginal, Mount Yarrowyck
our loneliness (and disappointment) was the cemetery by the river
we claimed a small plot of thought   and dug with our dollars (& Sacagawea’s)
the food no longer knows our hand, only our mouth
the wide open plain (like a wallet, holding values for slave) no longer knows its laxity and readiness
its wind from its ceiling fans, its plain from imagination, always dead but alive
the wildest thing about her head was the flower in her hair , we was all weeds
you have we to blame, climb the greenback to the clouds 
the river no longer controls its own route
our anxiety and discomfort was Las Vegas construction material, playas de Rosarito,
look to Colorado, his existential angst was unoriginal, faux rock, cgi moai
dreams stuck in an old Portland, what happens in time (andOakland) stays in time
4/4 thru a corporate owned store window, the drums line up, don’t realize they’re symbol, ride paid for by bought into
how many ideas does it require to assume an identity
the wildest thing left in us was our impatience 
and drool for the next bit of everything
the kitchen sink was the new river
we would all put our heaviest books and favorite radios around our legs and walk into 
its deepest  and most unuttered parts, Svalbard‘s no man’s land,
seal-hunter’s Antarctica  (, by wooden boat)
and pull out, sui generis, and full of blueprints  
her moments of clarity and bandwidth were the international seabed
the pieces of old ship left behind in the open wound like fine glass
kept  delicately   and turned down  like static
his buzz killed flies and kept him up all night
our confusion was a useful and pragmatic wheel
the rivers no longer know our pottery, our dishes
when nature exploited us as much as we did it
as if we’re not already doing it to ourselves, naturally
when the wild left in us meant the movie-memorabilia lasso around our neck
the old west still pushing for further see
and better camera and badges to capture it
with the colorado river debris and next Rapa Nui statue
pin the myth on the propaganda, moab tailings, move the dream by railroad (at night)
cut down the house for an alter
to prey upon
the spectacle was meat and potatoes, antiperspirant and popping bread
persistent with its hook  and butter
gentle with its razor   (and routine grind)
the last hundred years wrote the most recent hit song  (slowly)
she sung from her ‘herd instinct’, from bacon grease, from forgetful and un-ducking reagan, from jekyll-island in her          ,
and all the choices in us heard was chains
the freest parts of us were the pieces up for grab, the land in civil war
the breath between two words
line down  !
the place the fight broke out was the most profound
we named dying and the dead after it    
the river no longer knows its ocean,(or itself) only (by) its dishwashers and sprinklers
our emotions-in-resident don’t even know their own front doors, their (sponsors,)lawns or neighbors
her sense of rejection and let down were the suburbs
a subtext to the sprawling network of thoughts that were the (grueling) day
where the sun dries up on the horizon
we pitch hurt and repent like thick woulds with campsite
and invent fire to sleep around
like dream is a hallway light kept on (to discourage thieves) (while out)
(if keeping your mind meant selling it, and selling it was no different than letting it be stolen)
a shack in the sun, sad in broad daylight
a tent-city along our precipice, a line of wigwam where the emptiness begins
(a row of picket signs protect the bank)  (like a bleached white fence reflecting back the sun  like a flood) 
we were the next day of picking up the pieces and pulling out survivors                
most her emotions were prisoners of war, in a hole on a treadmill
most of the rivers can’t pronounce their names
i don’t correct them when they call to verify (billing) address    
and who do we charge for the hacked hearts, the already busted appliances & inherent holes in the walls
we wrapped around us like blankets and fireman’s arms
even if we make enough hose
there won’t be enough lake, leg or river, or pothole or gutter to fill and put out the gaping spectacle we started
for this moment, i’ll be boat and wait for the right second to throw off this body, split   
and lay inside it like a wild arrow, an extinct animal, broken bread caught in the crossfire,
the area where your anger keeps you warm   inside
close to fear, distant relative to living,
blood losing feeling, ape losing naked,
she felt undressed and exposed in her cherry red cheeks and new layers of uniform
eyes like two scoops of dessert for dinner
built the prison with stone broke
Lenni-Lenape, no use in breaking out, assimilate to what?!, 
sent her instincts  with her soft spots, to camps, intuitions to internments,
each of her tears had a heavy boot       and left a trail                 
we found empty graves at the end of
her emotions were high water marks we kept in mind while acting
we all hold the stage      and hope the river plays along



--------------------------------------------------------------