JACK
64 lines✦
he same as you:You ran away from school. It was romance.You thought you loved this flashy travelling man.And I--I loved adventure, loved the truth.I wanted to destroy the force called "They."There is no "They"--we're all together here,And everyone must live, Christ Perko too,The pulp-mill, the policeman, magistrate,The alderman, the precinct captain too,And you the girls, myself the editor,And all the lesser writers. Here we areThrown in one integrated lot. You seeThere is no "They," except the terms, the thoughtWhich ramifies and vivifies the whole. ...So I came to the city, went to workReporting for a paper. Having saidThere is no "They"--I've freed myself to sayWhat bitter things I choose. For how they drive you,And terrify you, mock you, ridicule you,And call you cub and greenhorn, send you roundTo courts and dirty places, make you riskYour body and your life, and make you watchThe rules about your writing; what's tabooed,What names are to be cursed or to be praised,What interests, policies to be subserved,And what to undermine. So I went through,Until I had a desk, wrote editorials--Now said I to myself, I'm free at last.But no, my manager, your madam, mark you,Kept eye on me, for he was under watchOf some Christ Perko. So my managerBlue penciled me when I touched certain subjects.But, as he was a just man, loved me too.He gave me things to write where he could letMy conscience have full scope, as you might liveIn this house where you saw the man you loved,And no one else, though living in this hell.For I lived in a hell, who saw around meSuch lying, hatred, malice, prostitution.And when this offer came to be an editorOf a great magazine, I seemed to feelMy courage and my virtue given reward.Now, I should pass on poems, and on stories,Creations of free souls. It was not so.The poems and the stories one could seeWere written to be sold, to please a taste,Placate a prejudice, keep still aliveAn era dying, ready for the tomb,Already smelling. And that was not all.Just as the madam here must make reportTo Perko, so the magazine had to runTo suit the pulp mill. As the madam here,Assistant to Christ Perko, must keep friendsWith alderman, policemen, magistrates,So I was just a wheel in a machineTo keep it running with such larger wheels,And by them run, of policies, and politicsOf State and Nation. Here was I locked inAnd given dope to keep me still lest ICry out and wake the copper-who's the copperFor such as I was? If he heard me cryHow could he raid the magazine? If he raidedWhere was the court to take me and the rest--That's it, where is the court?
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