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![Poem begun at 3, rue du Midi, B 129, Toulouse, 7 July 1980, 8:55 p.m.—10:25.
(Idea from drive from le Barry to Toulouse yesterday afternoon.)
Revised in Bulgaria, 14 Jul 1980, 3:14 p.m.—4:28 (Preslav notel, Near Vana, in Zlatni Pjasaci, 15-19 July
Title changed 17 July.
SCARECROW, U.S.A.: THE ROAD TO TOULOUSE
A man, hanging stiffly from [the] the roadside tree,
[smeared] dyed my eyes awake with [dying] smears of sunlight,
burst my after-luncheon calm [against the] into some rolling scream
our tires must have sucked into the road
[turning] [curving] twisting out of sight [the] that dangling arm.
“What’s the French word for scarecrow?”
[was] strung out the [rope I climbed to stay aboard] rope I clung to. She steadied it with words,
drove slower till I [heard] understood “Some famers over here
[*19 July. Not like America, I guess?]
[hang] put them in [the] trees. They get in cherry trees”--
and the birds, she meant--“and chuk-chuk-chuk:
all you get is holes.”
I felt the cutting of the beak. The man’s head
Was [missing] gone, back there in the leaves, the limbs
I hadn’t [seen] caught it. The other arm, yes,
[a twist] its tendons of straw clinched for [the] his signature:
[* 16 July: indent 5 spaces or more]
[the] his bled-out warming
[that] from the tinsel-threaded legs, [*Put on line by itself (15 July)*]
the [blowing] [flashing] ravaged vest
the [flap-fringed] [undecipherable] flapping space [*Put on line by itself (16 July)*]
[imagination spun and scoured around/above the broomstick neck
all clarified/signified a matching face
imagination spun and scoured so hopefully
above the splintered broomstick neck
(oh, how imagination spun there, and scoured so hopelessly
to cast a human face!)
15 July, 11:50 a.m.—12:33
16 July, 11:56 a.m.—12:35, 2:10 p.m.—2:48; 3:55—4:27; 5:52—6:48
17 July 11:52 a.m.-12:28
below the bludgeoned [undecipherable] hat,
above the splintered broomstick neck,
(oh, how imagination spun around it,
scouring hopelessly to raise a human face!)
illiterate even, an X, any breathing scar,
some sign enforceable, acknowledging [a past,] people-past, a debt to pay, a surname [dragging] tracing back to wilderness
where family of outlaws, musketry [and]/or cannonball
blazed legacies through [undecipherable] tents and huts, and wild birds witnessing
[and] while wild birds witness[ing]es [undecipherable] and exchanged their chaos in the trees
19 July, 9:25 a.m.—10:10 a.m.
his personal X is last spasm, he marked [*replace “an X... line*]](https://nyc3.digitaloceanspaces.com/manifold-cuny-api-store/store/resource/8/0/c/80cf460b-3b3f-4e87-84fd-50c513e2ecc0/attachment/bfc18ee3ddc46c090e188aabcf02f76c.jpg)
![Poem begun at 55 bis ...., Paris, 26 Aug. 1986, 12:50 p.m.—12:57, 6:40 p.m.—7:51, [*10:20 p.m.—12.18 a.m.*]
DAMN A FIRING SQUAD
by J. A. Emanuel
Damn a firing squad,
[Business lipped] metal-lipped and blind to what [before they see,
[their rifles raised like [undecipherable] firming,
[their barrels] rifle sights pointed like [verdicts] testimony
[sawed] cut up, [stitched together, knifed] regrooved, tooled into line
[their] trigger fingers light as coils [mechanism]
inside a clock stopped ticking —
[rag doll makers, turn their backs]
[of the goods they knew.]
Nothing-personal killers
Repeating the verdict.
[*12:57 stopped here (final line maybe: Damn a firing squad, its duty done.) Or Damn this daily business of the world, its duty done.) Or … if it be possible to damn the daily business…).*]
Firing squad, [proud]
[proud]
[shining up for a funeral,]
proud as the Arlington bugler,
[all] shining/[up]their boots for the funeral
for sharp salutes into the grieving air,
bullets for the hero
still soldering there.
Mountain firing squad,
bandoliered, [and whiskers] bearded as/[bushes]shrubbery,
scowling at [the] traitors
who are tongue-tied at [never understood] their treason,
who slump [sank] suddenly, like rag dolls,
against their tight tree trunks,
[*line by itself*]
[*who jerk like rag dolls and slump on their tree trunks*]
as if tired of it all.
Damn a firing squad--
if it be possible
to damn the daily business
of this world.](https://nyc3.digitaloceanspaces.com/manifold-cuny-api-store/store/resource/c/0/0/c005bf3d-c6b1-494d-bad5-16f72abfabe5/attachment/f7819c1f749ee9f1f653770ce33bf7fc.jpg)
![First ideas for Lost Generation poem, rue du Midi, 17 Aug. 1978. We have stopped whole machines to get the silence needed to hear if you are still breathingDon't you believe us? We were lying lying LYING to you:Get up get up get up get up YOU Larry, who....Get up get up get up get up YOU so-and-so, who.... image of needle dangling from arm + other "machines" dragging, maiming, confusing the Black teenagersThe noise you hear: it is the sound of our feet, the sound of our bands, the sound of our jaws... we are coming to get you get you get you... we will do anything ANYTHING to wake you up, to bring you back... we need you... wake up wake up wake up WAKE UPwe have planes to bring you back, we have bombs, yes, bombs, to blast you out of those holes if you try to hide...we have computers to tell us all, yes, ALL we need to know...we can even teach you, even you, to run them run them [computers]we have jobs oh jobs, and you have the skills: can't you plant the trees again, scoop out the rivers, repair the feathers on the birds... (Movement of poem maybe goes from beginning irritation and blame to final almost-plea to "save us" or "save me")](https://nyc3.digitaloceanspaces.com/manifold-cuny-api-store/store/resource/7/3/a/73a5a59e-4b10-4542-98ca-1f9b4db5d393/attachment/72d9b8ae46757a204ee7ed5444c9c6dd.jpg)
