Cut thumbs and messy
love lives,
you punch us
in the eye
from the grave
while the peanut-crunching crowd
watches the ripples
of the bodies and minds
pulled under
by the precise weight
of wounded words.
I want to tell you
both something:
The glossy black spider
outside my front door,
two red triangles
almost an hourglass,
could kill me,
but she hides away,
guarding her little ones.
My broken friends,
something forgives us all.
There was an old woman
who lived with a ghost;
she went to a church
and accepted the Host.
Her children were ten
until one of them died;
they lived far away
and nightly they cried.
They searched for their mother
in lovers and friends,
in sex, drugs, and booze,
with various bad ends.
They longed to forgive
and let it all go,
but fate forced them back
to walk in the snow.
But one day they got it
and then understood:
Their mother was human
and grew up in mud.
Her mother had gone
and worked far away
in the factory for shoes
in downtown Norway.
She had disappeared
just after the birth
and run run away
to the ends of the earth.
So listen all children
and try not to despair;
your mothers are people,
not always all there.
Remember your pain
and all that you lost,
but also love freely
no matter the cost.
{Thank you, of course, to the Mother Goose Rhyme with the same title. And huge thanks to Margo Perin for prompting me to write from it.}
I am a guy
who looks at the moon
through this window;
you are a guy
who looks at the moon
through that window.
Everyone is a person
who looks at the moon
through a window;
the rest is a story,
and this is a story.
Still,
nosotros somos personas
que miramos la luna
a través de estas ventanas.
The total energy of
An isolated system
Remains constant.
Energy, like matter,
Is neither created
Nor destroyed.
I know this.
Which is why I went
Quite confusedly
Through my isolated system
Searching for the energy.
Any I could find.
Oh, I did find some…
Seeping meekly from
A trio of mismatched bulbs
In a dusty, bug-filled fixture…
Buzzing in brief, menacing bursts
From the wings of a paper wasp
Seeking refuge from the rain…
Falling in the incessant sleet
Of fingertips on keyboard and screen…
These were remnants
(Or so I thought)
Left behind after some
Unseen exodus of energy
From one end of my
Isolated system
To another.
Energy has a sound,
A smell, a feeling.
It should have left a clue
When it relocated.
A thunderclap
A whiff of ozone
A flash of heat
As the energy retreated
Into the attic, perhaps.
Or the toolshed.
The absence of energy
In an isolated system
Has its own sound.
A pitchless, timeless drone.
Audible inertia.
And it smells like apathy
Sprouting in old dishwater.
Feeling? That’s a tough one.
That requires a bit more energy
Than I can find right now.
I’m beginning to suspect
That the energy took one look
At this isolated system,
Gave William Rankine the finger,
And destroyed itself.
What time is it?
Looks like…half past nine.
Is there something I’m supposed to do?
What exactly was it that
I used to do right now
Back when “now” had meaning?
If I remember it, eventually,
I’ll do it later.
Maybe.
What day is it?
Well, it’s Thursday here
But it’s still Wednesday where you are
And I’m talking to you
On Zoom…or Skype?
No, it’s Zoom.
So what you say on Wednesday
Actually reaches me a day later.
That’s quite a delay, man!
They should really fix that.
What week is this?
Is this the one where we were
Supposed to be in France?
Or is it the one where we were going
To that party at your brother’s house?
I can’t even recall
What the occasion was.
Or is.
Or will be.
If it ever will.
Or was.
What month is it?
How many goddamn weeks
Have we been hiding in
This bloody foxhole?
When are we going over the top?
I really want to meet the enemy
Face to face, Captain.
Before our supplies run out.
Or they sever our communications.
Or we just forget what time is
And we forget what time was
And we lose what will be
And what could have been
And then…what was this fight
Even for?
Stay home.
Save lives.
How many?
I don’t know.
It’s definitely a lot.
Does it matter?
Just do it.
United we die.
Divided we live.
E pluribus plures.
Don’t tread on me
Or anywhere near me.
You might have germs.
Stay away.
Stay far away from me.
And everyone else.
Don’t kill my grampa!
Why would you want
To kill my grampa
You selfish bastard?
He fought in France
To protect us all
From tyranny.
And now he might die
In a nursing home
All alone
And it will be
Your fault.
You didn’t stay home yesterday.
I saw you out here
Having fun.
Non-essential fun
Where you aren’t allowed.
It’s dangerous
And unacceptable.
Why can’t you just
Stay inside
And bake bread
Like the rest of us?
We’re all in this together
So do your part
And fuck off.
You obviously don’t care
About the curve.
But you need to
Starting now.
See that red hill?
Look how tall it’s gotten.
That’s mostly your fault
You hedonistic asshole.
You’d better wise up
And help us
Flatten this fucking thing
Or we will flatten
Your face
(From a safe distance, naturally).
Go ahead. Try it.
Take one step closer.
I’ll call the cops.
Take two steps?
I’ll sneeze on you
I swear to God
And then you’ll catch
My disease, too.
Then you’re really screwed, pal.
There’s no vaccine
For what I’ve got
And there never will be.
Watch yourself! Coming through!
Six-foot bubble, displacing you.
My private air! You can’t come in.
Your air comes towards me? Mine will win.
Wear a mask! Wear none at all!
My bodyguard stands six feet tall!
He sees if you’ve been good or bad
And how many close contacts you’ve had.
Transparent knight with skin of steel.
All viruses are forced to kneel.
My safety is your main concern.
And if it ain’t, you’d better learn.
You washed your fruit? Don’t make me laugh!
I soak my meals in a bubble bath.
I don’t fret if I touch my eye
‘Cause I’ve scrubbed both my hands with lye.
My six-foot bubble is a slice
Of antiseptic paradise.
So clear the lane! My bubble’s here
To make your bubbles quake with fear!
Six feet left. Six feet right.
My bubble’s watching, day and night.
But when my pillow hits my head
I still hope I don’t wake up dead.
….Shale Silverstone
So much unspoken
between you
and your mother
who wants to kiss us
with her sad, sad mouth;
Outside, the streets no better,
bricks and shut doors,
strangling heat and no one home.
A train winds
like the smoke of snuffed candles
past the old toothpick factory,
over the bridge, out of town
and into the unknown
of your burial in Norway
where a wind threshes
the cemetery, once a field
where Mom learned to walk.
All of this
and naked oak trees,
the vacuum of outer space
among them.
Ora pro nobis,
why not,
but pray for the living also,
left behind
to wrestle angels.
Love,
trampled underfoot,
seeks a place
to grow.
Not Another Frigging Blog 