Two Prose Poems

for the barricades of Minneapolis

Surgery

It wasn’t the parts they removed – people have always adapted, and at first they only took one from each – but the way they decided which part from whom went unexplained. Groups formed naturally among those who shared a new situation, but when they looked at one another they could find no other common thread. Workers on the same assembly line had different parts removed that necessarily altered the patterns of their work, yet the demands of the job remained. It was those factory workers who began swapping tasks to accommodate the changes – which in turn led to the first self-management organizations. The revolution that followed was so efficient, hardly anyone realized it had taken place until the parts stopped being removed. Which is why now we refer to our society as a body, a whole body.

Mai 68

I was riding my bike through a half-abandoned mall. I knew I shouldn’t, and one of four boys following a monk reprimanded me. Just then an lighting fixture fell near the boy. I laughed triumphantly. But the boy looked scolded by God, so I dismounted as he had wished. I fell in behind the monk and four boys, single file. We arrived at one of the remaining open food stalls, where they were expected. A young woman prepared small cups of elaborately different food for each of the boys, and they and the monk relished everything on their trays. I ordered noodles and sat down. Two young men emerged from the stairs leading down to a kitchen and explained they were in a band. Her name was Mai, they were Mai 68. The noodles were excellent. We don’t make them to eat with a spoon, they said proudly. I asked to hear their music. We can’t play our tape at school because families disapprove, they explained, we only play it when we’re working at night. The rhythms were ordinary but the melodies odd. I suggested we make a recording there in the restaurant. The space was cramped. I was struggling to arrange enough stands and cables. They waited outside in the night air playing pétanque. I heard the sound of boules clacking and went to record it, but when I arrived with a microphone they looked abashed and started to hurry back in. I want to record the pétanque, I said, so they continued to play but now it was self-conscious and not worth recording. They enjoyed the novelty of the idea so I held up the mic regardless. Soon they became boisterous as if drunk. Mai brought out a platter of foods at once sweet and savory, strange as the melodies. Everyone reached in to share, the sounds became unselfconscious again and joyous. It grew loud. I slipped back inside to finish preparations for the recording.