Politics of Nails

Politics of Nails


Dr. Hornby has invited all the nails
in all the boards of all the walls
at Twentieth Century Fox Studios
to wiggle out of their current positions
and join him in protest against
the general effects of what Marcuse termed spike singularity.
I for one will be present
if I can get a ride since I don’t drive;
and find something to wear, since
I don’t know how best to choose event costumes;
and find a companion to stride alongside,
since soliloquies are so shamefully embarrassing
that I’d prefer to grouse, if I must, in the choir.

Dr. Hornby, or “Hammer” Hornby
as he was known at Stanford, relies
on instinctual polarity toward that which
Erich Fromm labeled magnanimous impingement:
a plush flocking of the heart’s murkier interiors.
Nails, as can be attested by those in their circle,
are loyal devotees to service, but rather invisible
in the halls of discourse, at least until now
when Los Angeles and all she invigorates
cry out for support and patronage from patsies,
be they ten-penny, or flat-headed.

Dr. Hornby’s call to action is expected this weekend,
count on me to welcome and urge,
if I can find someone to stencil me a new placard,
mine being useless as a result of previous
concussions onto the forged pegs of activism;
and perhaps find others who will stolidly carry banners
exposing plight, stirring arousal;
maybe open their homes to those nails
who will be traveling in from bordering states
and junctions, each construction site collapsing
in their wake, each page of history falling
down to the general hubbub below
where those of us encapsulated in involvement
tear off a corner, fold it rigidly and pick our teeth,
while freedom rings, waits, rings again.


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