Monthly Archives: January 2012

Political Bullshit

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It was cold, cold and wild; teeth chattering, frozen water cold. I don’t care much for the cold. Don’t care much for the hot either, but this kind of bone-brittle cold makes my head hurt. Unfortunately, I had walked my way into a serious existential dilemma. (as if there’s any other kind) I was in Michigan, having stumbled into a town where a Presidential debate happened to be. The town was loud and ambulatory. The streets were loud with voices and tires; the sky was loud with rotors and winds. Not important, or rich, enough to stake a place at the debate, I found myself in an after-debate party…though there wasn’t much partying. Lots of talking and nodding and sipping wine. Typical political bullshit. “Oh, well I thought Senator X——‘s commentary on the bankrupt state of the economy was a refreshing and honest analysis of the current administration’s incompetence.” “Well, I thought Governor Z——‘s experience and directness with threatening foreign affairs was an obvious indictment of his opponent’s callowness.” The bullshit is that each person sees his or her candidate as the winner of the debate. It doesn’t take long for this sort of myopia to send me to the nearest door to walk about and breathe in the air and the scents and the sounds. But damn it’s a wild winter outside.

9/27/2008

Good Dog

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At lunch on Sunday he contemplated the death and potential murder of his own yellow lab. That was the only viable option he could see to remove himself from this liver-wrenching, enervating relationship. She loved that dog like a child. He hoped, like the death of a child, the death of his dog would strain their unspoken covenant enough to reveal a consensual split as the most amicable alternative. She would always, every day, blame him for taking their young prelude to a child on the hunt with his high-school friends – his high-school friends who hunt with a shot-gun in one hand and a beer bottle in the other. Quite normal and expected really. There had never been a lethal accident before. This time, of course, it would be pre-mediated. But she would never know. Perhaps not even suspect. Damn, though, he sure was a good dog.

2008

Wilted Grapes

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Often upon the wilted rose, I
hang toward earth and swing and sway,
fold my arms in feigned irreverence,
furtively murmuring prayers I know;

so soon it seems our lives unfold
so soon we see in doubtful reverence;
we chomp on this our undernourished day,
pleading for just one quiet afternoon.

Heavy with the weight of foot-pressed grape
we glare blood-eyed and thoughtless yelp
of every unsuppressed, disreputable tale
on which we squint and contemplate

ourselves, our world and our soul-isle;
alone and beached, our stare dead-eyed,
sucking air like a spectacular washed-up whale:
between each breath our secret prayer to die.

Our world is clinched between the structured
and the free; both giddy and forlorn.
I have nibbled the imprecatory psalm –
tossed and thrown, smiling and wave-worn.

Green Satchel

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He walked into the long narrow restaurant with a green satchel strapped on his left shoulder, wearing round dark-rimmed glasses that certainly made him look intelligent with his suede sports coat on. He attracted the darting eyes of those around him when he pulled a small notebook out of the green satchel and began to write in slow spurts – looking up and around periodically as though drawing the scenery with a journalist’s eye. The waiter brought him a bottle of Côtes-du-Rhône and poured a bit into a small table glass. He smiled and thanked the waiter with a nod and took a drink of the wine before continuing writing. He felt that he was getting along well when the door opened and he saw a friend enter the café. He sighed to himself, then smiled and closed the book and stood to greet his friend.

12/16/03