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ALL THE MUSIC AND ARTWORK ON THIS WEBSITE IS DISPLAYED UNDER A
CREATIVE COMMONS LICENSE
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
ALL THE MUSIC AND ARTWORK ON THIS WEBSITE IS DISPLAYED UNDER A
CREATIVE COMMONS LICENSE
History's Child
David Blaine
This is a poem about stories,
The stories we've been told
And the stories we tell.
This is a poem about the difference
Between fact and truth.
Fact is brutal. Fact
Is a bare two hundred watt bulb
Glaring in your eyes.
Fact is a caustic substance you carry
In a brown glass bottle, stopper
Firmly fixed.
Fact tells a man
He's fat, bald
And, no,
As a matter of fact,
It wasn't good for her, too.
Fact tells a woman
That her makeup's no substitute
For absent beauty
And she has the sharp wit
And captivating personality
Of a trout.
Fact drives people
To climb over the guardrails
Of tall bridges
and leap to their deaths
In a river of frustration.
Outside of criminal court
Fact has no place
In polite society.
But truth,
Truth is fact with the corners rounded
off
And the edges softened. Truth
Is palatable.
A poet once wrote,
Truth is history's child.
And history is just a story,
Written by the victors,
Once the vanquished slink off
To eternal anonymity.
Story is like a cotton gin:
You put facts in at the top
And truth comes out
somewhere down below
Do you suppose your father
And all your uncles
Were always so wise,
Polite and successful?
And that you,
You are the first male
In the family line
To be kicked out of school
Get his girlfriend knocked up
or do time for joyriding
a stolen car?
Those may be the facts,
But after you write your story.
The truth will place you alongside
All those other wise, polite, successful
men,
Like your dad.
Fact is a black and white Polaroid:
You, a sheep, pants around your
ankles.
Fuck fact,
Tell me your story.
David Blaine
This is a poem about stories,
The stories we've been told
And the stories we tell.
This is a poem about the difference
Between fact and truth.
Fact is brutal. Fact
Is a bare two hundred watt bulb
Glaring in your eyes.
Fact is a caustic substance you carry
In a brown glass bottle, stopper
Firmly fixed.
Fact tells a man
He's fat, bald
And, no,
As a matter of fact,
It wasn't good for her, too.
Fact tells a woman
That her makeup's no substitute
For absent beauty
And she has the sharp wit
And captivating personality
Of a trout.
Fact drives people
To climb over the guardrails
Of tall bridges
and leap to their deaths
In a river of frustration.
Outside of criminal court
Fact has no place
In polite society.
But truth,
Truth is fact with the corners rounded
off
And the edges softened. Truth
Is palatable.
A poet once wrote,
Truth is history's child.
And history is just a story,
Written by the victors,
Once the vanquished slink off
To eternal anonymity.
Story is like a cotton gin:
You put facts in at the top
And truth comes out
somewhere down below
Do you suppose your father
And all your uncles
Were always so wise,
Polite and successful?
And that you,
You are the first male
In the family line
To be kicked out of school
Get his girlfriend knocked up
or do time for joyriding
a stolen car?
Those may be the facts,
But after you write your story.
The truth will place you alongside
All those other wise, polite, successful
men,
Like your dad.
Fact is a black and white Polaroid:
You, a sheep, pants around your
ankles.
Fuck fact,
Tell me your story.
Less Than One
David Blaine
Today we are three hundred million
in one nation—
one nation of laws and rules,
rules that are enforced unequally
due to inequalities that are being
addressed
by rule of law.
Today there are some of us claiming
to live in a Christian nation. Although
we are all guaranteed freedom of
religion.
(And freedom from religion.)
Today there are some of us claiming
to live in an English speaking nation.
Although English is quickly being
replaced
by Spanish, Chinese, Japanese,
Arabic and
almost every other tongue on the earth.
Today there are some of us claiming
to own this country, although none of
us
came from here.
(Would the last one in please hold the
door?)
Today there are people claiming
that this country is a particular color
although few of us are just one color.
Today we are three hundred million
from poor to royal we are
from lazy to restless we are
from north to south
and east to west, we are.
Remembering past persecution in
Africa
in the Middle East, in South and Central
America, in Soviet gulags
and Polish concentration camps
and in our own country, too,
where we stand, and not that long ago.
(And even now.)
Today we are three hundred million—
bull riding, Nascar driving, dope
smoking
whiskey drinking, bible thumping, red
necked
white eyed, blue balled and star struck.
We sing the blues, rock and roll, show
tunes,
country and western, alternative and
anything else
we can think of.
We form cliques, clubs, secret societies
and we teach our children that "we"
are right
"they" are wrong, the strong survive,
God is on our side, and all is fair
when "we" do it.
We smile at passers by and then call
up our sleeve:
Nigger,
Spic,
Mick,
Kike,
Wop,
Gook,
and Towel Head.
We are three hundred million, today.
We have the people,
we have the know how, we could do
right by each other,
for each other, with each other. But
instead
we're doing it to each other.
Today, we are three hundred million:
weak and powerless.
We are less than one.
David Blaine
Today we are three hundred million
in one nation—
one nation of laws and rules,
rules that are enforced unequally
due to inequalities that are being
addressed
by rule of law.
Today there are some of us claiming
to live in a Christian nation. Although
we are all guaranteed freedom of
religion.
(And freedom from religion.)
Today there are some of us claiming
to live in an English speaking nation.
Although English is quickly being
replaced
by Spanish, Chinese, Japanese,
Arabic and
almost every other tongue on the earth.
Today there are some of us claiming
to own this country, although none of
us
came from here.
(Would the last one in please hold the
door?)
Today there are people claiming
that this country is a particular color
although few of us are just one color.
Today we are three hundred million
from poor to royal we are
from lazy to restless we are
from north to south
and east to west, we are.
Remembering past persecution in
Africa
in the Middle East, in South and Central
America, in Soviet gulags
and Polish concentration camps
and in our own country, too,
where we stand, and not that long ago.
(And even now.)
Today we are three hundred million—
bull riding, Nascar driving, dope
smoking
whiskey drinking, bible thumping, red
necked
white eyed, blue balled and star struck.
We sing the blues, rock and roll, show
tunes,
country and western, alternative and
anything else
we can think of.
We form cliques, clubs, secret societies
and we teach our children that "we"
are right
"they" are wrong, the strong survive,
God is on our side, and all is fair
when "we" do it.
We smile at passers by and then call
up our sleeve:
Nigger,
Spic,
Mick,
Kike,
Wop,
Gook,
and Towel Head.
We are three hundred million, today.
We have the people,
we have the know how, we could do
right by each other,
for each other, with each other. But
instead
we're doing it to each other.
Today, we are three hundred million:
weak and powerless.
We are less than one.
DAVID BLAINE
Passing
David Blaine
You ask your wife,
"Why must it always be
about perceptions?"
"Well," she replies, "they say
perception is nine tenths
of the law."
"No," you correct her,
"That's possession.
Possession is nine tenths of the law."
"You must be right," she sighs.
"You always have to be right. "
Touche
This week you wrote villanelles
so that at tonight's party
you could pass yourself off
as a lyricist.
"A song writer? That explains
the black turtleneck."
chortled your host.
"Thank God, I thought
you might be a poet."
Thats how others think.
But you are lying
on your bed now,
comparing your life
to an obscure French movie,
one where the English comes
only in subtitles.
You resolve to write
an epic narrative
about the whole sordid thing.
Next weekend you will wear
a crew neck, and pass
yourself off as a film critic.
You are always passing;
it's forever about perceptions
David Blaine
You ask your wife,
"Why must it always be
about perceptions?"
"Well," she replies, "they say
perception is nine tenths
of the law."
"No," you correct her,
"That's possession.
Possession is nine tenths of the law."
"You must be right," she sighs.
"You always have to be right. "
Touche
This week you wrote villanelles
so that at tonight's party
you could pass yourself off
as a lyricist.
"A song writer? That explains
the black turtleneck."
chortled your host.
"Thank God, I thought
you might be a poet."
Thats how others think.
But you are lying
on your bed now,
comparing your life
to an obscure French movie,
one where the English comes
only in subtitles.
You resolve to write
an epic narrative
about the whole sordid thing.
Next weekend you will wear
a crew neck, and pass
yourself off as a film critic.
You are always passing;
it's forever about perceptions
A new chapbook: "The View
From Here"
From Here"
 | |  | |  | |  |
or "A Fine Feathered
Faith"
Faith"
Both contain original poems by
David Blaine.
U.S.$7.00 each - Free shipping
inside the U.S.
Click a photo above to buy now.
David Blaine.
U.S.$7.00 each - Free shipping
inside the U.S.
Click a photo above to buy now.
The Usual Suspects
David B;aine
Because they are the hands that sign
the orders
Because they are the hands that pull
the trigger
Because they are the hands that wipe
our shitty asses
Because they are the hands that touch
our naughty bits
Because they are the hands that strike
our children
Because they, too, are the hands of
Brutus
Because they are the hands that deal
in currency
Because they are the dealer's hands
Because they are the hands that hold
the needle
Because they are the hands that sell
syringes
Because they are the hands that push
the button
Because they are the hands that pull
the switch
Because they are the hands of Judas,
pointing
Because they are the hands that swing
the axe
Because they are the hands that throw
the dirt
Because they are the hands that build
our bombs
Because they are the hands that show
false ways
Because they are the hands that take
and
Because they are the hands that
refuse to give
Because they are all our hands
Because they are the hands of all
Because we are the usual suspects
David B;aine
Because they are the hands that sign
the orders
Because they are the hands that pull
the trigger
Because they are the hands that wipe
our shitty asses
Because they are the hands that touch
our naughty bits
Because they are the hands that strike
our children
Because they, too, are the hands of
Brutus
Because they are the hands that deal
in currency
Because they are the dealer's hands
Because they are the hands that hold
the needle
Because they are the hands that sell
syringes
Because they are the hands that push
the button
Because they are the hands that pull
the switch
Because they are the hands of Judas,
pointing
Because they are the hands that swing
the axe
Because they are the hands that throw
the dirt
Because they are the hands that build
our bombs
Because they are the hands that show
false ways
Because they are the hands that take
and
Because they are the hands that
refuse to give
Because they are all our hands
Because they are the hands of all
Because we are the usual suspects
Monumental
David Blaine
Brick upon brick, stone upon stone
Workman supplying his sinew and bone
Memorials built for lives that were spent
Men who left family and never came
home.
To North Atlantic beach they went.
In Southeast Asian jungles sent.
Pacific Rim on ships were bound.
For good or evil was it meant?
The obelisk and column round
erect here on this bloodied ground.
Whether monument or man you praise
the shot and shell no longer sound.
So marble walls or granite raise
the memory dims, the building stays.
We gaze on these and count the cost
and pray to see no more those days.
For all the currencies we lost,
lay rotting now beneath the frost.
David Blaine
Brick upon brick, stone upon stone
Workman supplying his sinew and bone
Memorials built for lives that were spent
Men who left family and never came
home.
To North Atlantic beach they went.
In Southeast Asian jungles sent.
Pacific Rim on ships were bound.
For good or evil was it meant?
The obelisk and column round
erect here on this bloodied ground.
Whether monument or man you praise
the shot and shell no longer sound.
So marble walls or granite raise
the memory dims, the building stays.
We gaze on these and count the cost
and pray to see no more those days.
For all the currencies we lost,
lay rotting now beneath the frost.
