I had a dream in the still of the day
It shook me to my bones
I dreamed I got up and I went to the door
But the sun no longer shone
There were people millin all around
I could see them from where I stood
They were cryin and holdin out their hands
But I could do them no good
‘Cause I’d slept too long
And the sun was gone
I’d slept too long
And the sun was gone
Women are the great civilizers. If the human race consisted only of men, we’d likely all be sitting around camp fires toasting mice and hamsters on sticks. But one day a woman said to her man: “I’m tired of hamsters. We need salads and vegetables.” And so some men went out eating every plant (with many men dying) until they found a few that didn’t kill you and were at least sort of tasty. (I’m guessing the guy that found lettuce was a big hit with the girls.) And then, during a rain, a woman said, “Unk has a cave where he and Sheila stay, and they don’t get wet when it rains.” And so wanting to please (and fearing to lose) his woman, a man figured out how to make a lean-to, and of course, once one woman had a lean-to-man, all the other women insisted that their men become lean-to-men as well.
And so now we are in the modern world, and our women say things like “I think we need new curtains,” or “the garbage needs to be taken out,” and we men pony up, even though we’d be happy ourselves with a good log for sitting, and a few crispy hamsters, with maybe a mouse or two thrown in for variety.
We clockwork walking,
we muck-born metal,
we clicking hatchets,
we strutting shovers,
we who pet and slap,
we who smile through fangs,
we grooms who kill brides,
we mothers who kill children,
we sons who kill fathers,
we strangers who kill grinning,
we bogs of rot,
we springing razors,
we grinders all,
we little gods bleeding
from the cuts of our oppressors, spotted
with the blood of our victims, rattle our fists
to curse God.
He who heals is beneath us. He who binds insults us.
We need no salve; we need no cool water;
we need no quiet sleep; we need no reach into our chest.
When Debbie and I discovered she was pregnant with our third child, we had already successfully brought two children into our family, so we were confident we knew what was coming. We’d done this already, and though it wasn’t all singing and flowers, we were confident it would be routine, and in a few months we’d have special child number three. (more…)
Arthur says “God has some ’splainin to do.” The remark refers, I think, to the question of evil in the world. It is an old philosophical debate, as in, “If there is a God, how can he allow evil things to happen in the world?” I don’t hope to end the debate for all time here, but this is a poem of mine that encompasses some of my thoughts on the subject.
—–
God’s Dogs
I know your brother drowned that day,
there in the cold cold water. Now you
hate God, as though He chose to swim.
You say God let him die! and cross your arms.
Might God be better if like a pious pet owner
He kept his dogs neutered? But dogs might have
a different view about that kind of juggling.
As for me, I’d rather walk a-danglin’, though the world
is full of bumps and stumps. I don’t want God
to make me safe with scissors, even if a bitch
is ready, there across the cold cold water.
irony means I am free
to take up arms and murder me.
I grasp the blade to wield the sword,
my bleeding fingers all ignored.
step down hard so I will feel
the grinding motion of your heel;
destroy the serpent here within,
that wears my face, and hair, and skin.
bitten, I will fix my stare
on snake of brass impaled there
up on a pole where I can find
its brazen coils all intertwined.
Blood on the door and either side
makes just the place where I can hide.
Subtitle: Keep the Change
No pluribus for me, if you please;
I want no plebeian, many-fingered fist
twisted around my neck, to wrest
its will from me. No, I insist
our liberty is best.
I want no blood-debt, yet I stand
on tottering stacks of long-dead men
and what they’ve made with their own hands.
I’ll reach my own to steady any friend,
he being one with need, not loud demands.
Charity is best if not coerced;
taking what’s not offered robs what first
belonged to someone else, this use of force
deprives the willing heart, and at its worst
replaces kindness with a curse.
No one should suffer hunger, when some here
enjoy an excess, so I gladly share
a portion of my gain; the need is clear.
But don’t presume to bluster and declare
I owe it; that, I can’t forbear.
Warning to my children: This prose poem contains some sexual text. Even adult children don’t want to read that from a parent. If you read on and get nauseous, it’s your own fault!
Charlie posted a poem about a hot day. This is one of mine on the same subject.
The sky wiggles like butter
in a skillet. The sun must be an egg
and I’m the bacon. I’m making broth
on my noggin. My toast of eyebrows sops
and sops but soup gets in my eyes.
The flies are too hot to buzz me for salt.
They loll in the shade sipping shit
under paper parasols. The river calls:
I lie gold and green, a field of diamonds.
I run cool and clean. I spoon your shore.
I will be a stone, thrown and sunk.
I’ll congeal in that freezer then I’ll float
to the top like a dollop of sour cream
in cold borscht.
Charlie said it don’t make no difference.
He said if the world was a dog, then dogs
wouldn’t be nothin’ but a bunch of fleas.
Then he laughed just like the big shit-turd he is.
I wanted to yell into his stupid grinnin’ face
that the world ain’t no dog, but he was drinkin’.
Ma says if I rile him when he’s drinkin’
I deserve what I get.
Lady watched Charlie as he took each scruffy
pup and put it in the sack. She sniffed his hand
when he grabbed one, and then she’d sniff
her porch spot where the rest was.
Then I was sniffin’ too, because I knew
she didn’t have no idea what was happening.
When they was all gone into the sack she nosed it
and just kept whinin’ and waggin’ her tail.
Charlie laughed at her. He said
What’s the matter Lady? You like fleas?
Then he held the sack close to her nose
so she could smell it better. I could see
them puppies wigglin’ through the sack,
and they was cryin’ for Lady. Poor stupid Lady
just kept on waggin’ her tail.
Charlie told me to come on and we was going to
throw them puppies off the bridge.
But I said no way, I ain’t no damn killer.
He said they was just a bunch of fleas
and then he laughed again. Lady was still standin’
right by him sort of shiftin’ her feet and smellin’ that bag.
Charlie got mad then and threw his beer bottle at me,
but I ducked and ran away. When I came back later
I guess he did it, ‘cause the puppies was gone
and he was sittin’ inside drinkin’ more beer
and watchin’ TV. He laughed at me again
and called me dumb flea-lover.
Lady sniffed all over the porch and around
the house the rest of the day. She cried all night
and I didn’t get no sleep at all.
The next day she stopped whinin’. For a week,
every time Charlie saw Lady he said
where’s your fleas girl?
Poor stupid Lady just wagged her damn tail.
