Bloggers
get to do this, you see, or maybe we have to, since there are days when the
news is so unremittingly bad that The New York Times and El Nuevo Día are merely siren songs for suicide (sorry for that
alliteration—all this poetry stuff I’m doing must be rubbing off). So what can
I tell you, or rather, in what new ways can I derich your—perhaps/
probably—difficult Monday morning.
Well, start
off briskly with this:
Do I have
to? Because—talk about a graphic being worth a thousand words—who needs to make
that click? I know perfectly well what’s happening, I know perfectly well how I
feel about fracking
(essentially, frack that), and so why make myself crazy?
Does it get
better? Of course not, because then we have to come to this:
Wonderful!
Investigated that just enough to know that vegetarianism is out, too, since the
storage tanks holding all that highly radioactive water? Do I have to tell you?
Move on to
this:
Why isn’t
Congress acting? Do you think I haven’t asked myself that question? Of
course, and here’s the answer, if you really didn’t know: Congress is not
acting because, for the last six years, a bunch of elderly white bigots
ostensibly called Republicans have been in a frenzy of obstructionism. You see,
the world changed—you see, they don’t. Oh, and guess what? Because
here’s what’s next….
Devoted as
I am to you, Dear Readers, who wake every day thirsting to read this blog,
whose one reason is to wake…oh, skip it. I checked it out and yes, Thomas reasons
that Congress can’t establish religions, but that doesn’t mean that a
state can’t. So you Mormons out there in Utah? Feel free!
Well, the
Supreme Court is taking a well-deserved rest, having busily fucked everything
else up for the rest of us, who are going to have to get busy and do stuff like
this:
Go to it guys!
At last, I have uncovered the reason for the deeply addictifying nature of Facebook, since the site puts you into such a state of catatonic rage—don’t know how they do that, but they got it figured out—that you then have to turn to stuff like this:
At last, I have uncovered the reason for the deeply addictifying nature of Facebook, since the site puts you into such a state of catatonic rage—don’t know how they do that, but they got it figured out—that you then have to turn to stuff like this:
Well
of course, of course, I had to spend seven minutes of Monday morning
looking at the movie references to Wisconsin—you, Dear Reader, deserve nothing
less—but having done that, please don’t waste your time. Somebody, after all,
has to keep this world together.
But
now, I’m saved by Montalvo, who arrives with the news that his poetry is
driving him crazy, since he spent five years making the same mistake, namely
writing lines of two words each. I’ve told him, the feeling of reading poem
like this is just like bumping down the stairs on your rear-end. So it’s time
for a challenge: write a poem of four four-line stanzas, with each line being
at least eight syllables each. The first line is “Your memory is a silent
ghost,” and you have half an hour to do it. Get to work.
Well,
can I do that? I decide to try:
Your memory is a
silent ghost
That still cries
at night, when the wind,
Cold and
unwanted, forces itself through the
Cracks of my
empty heart, which even now
Has a ventricle
for the eyes that saw no one but me,
Before they
misted, clouded, became watery, then pus-filled
And at last, all
desire lost, refused to see.
A ventricle to,
for the voice, which once was only
Laughter, then
turned to song, and then
Hardened
slightly, turned as somber as mute swans
In a chill
Autumn pond, until your voice, as they, fell silent.
I fled, then, to
the other chambers of my heart, places
You were little
likely to go, places I might have shown
You, but did
not. I slammed the valves shut,
cemented them
With hurt,
grief, the usual glues of a deadened love.
I waited, alone,
in a dusty corner, and listened—
Thump-thump,
thump-thump; you knocking insistently
For a while, but
each day more silently, weaker, until at last,
Tired of a call
never answered, you left, and it was silence
At last.
