Now I am sixty in less than a month. I’ve seen seven hundred twenty moons blaze up and light the orchards and the sea then fade away. It’s time to deconstruct my life; no time to rest, to elegize the years. What’s past was wasted or was spent. But how to dismantle and renew? Does anyone remember where we stored the paint? Yes, I know I shouldn’t joke but sometimes either you laugh or cry, can’t sleep, or sleep through half the morning, burning days.
Seven hundred moons or more or less in sixty years, though most of them rose and shone unseen on the roof of the house. And I will tell you a secret: the mind does not remember pain. It might recall the lurid shadows where pain rose and the light that drove it away. So we should go out when the moon is full and pray for the sun to rise.
After a year everything seems the same except the light in this room keeps changing. On sunny days it reflects from the neighbor’s garage, so people and cars cast shadows on the ceiling and the walls. I live in Plato’s Cave.
Now there must be clouds moving in to block the sun. Yes, but here it comes again, the light on this page, and then it’s gone. The bands of brightness on the ceiling flash and my pencil moves across the paper, signifying time.
In the room the shadows come and go and are your people still alright? And have you had your shots? Then here comes spring with plans to travel, feel the world go warm again, which in our case we have not got.
I have been indoors too long, alone. But that will be my story; it has always been my story: How I outlived the year to see today amidst the boredom and the horror and the glory.
I feel sad. How can they say that love exists only now, only today, when I know I need to love you tomorrow, as I have since we met? And I know it’s been years. If nothing else, the turning planet proves it: Time is created by motion and by the rhythm of a beating heart. Some days, everything is reduced to this, and to expectations – the process of diagnostics. Hope exists just in the future, whether the future is real or not. The Now isn’t always a place to call home.
I feel sad. Stuck in the future again. And don’t even mention the crows or the ocean this time. Nothing is rising and falling all night under a February moon or alighting on some trembling branch of faith. It just is what it is and I’m tired of Fear stopping by to spoil the music and the softened light of winter days. I’m just sad because everything worth loving and holding tight with joy and gratitude is fragile, and mortal and precious, like you.
Love is the one thing we’re capable of perceiving that transcends dimensions of time and space. Maybe we should trust that, even if we can’t understand it. – Interstellar
Breathe in and whisper God. Breathe out and cry Oh World. Then sigh oh short winter grass. There is nothing we ought to do so be still, be a creature believed by God, before He set the Earth to spin and Time to walk. And what might walk the other way? Death is too easy to write – on a page we see it circling overhead, a flock of dark wings. The winter sky is bright but pale and we see the walker coming straight ahead, never tiring, never sleeping, day and night. It only slows to listen if we sing.
It’s 1am in Washington, January 19, 2021. The last day of Donald Trump’s time occupying the White House is underway. I say occupancy, not presidency, because the man never showed up for work. He didn’t just give us bad leadership; it was no leadership at all.
On January 21 2017, the day after he took the oath, Trump had a campaign rally for the 2020 election. He spent 4 years lying, whining, complaining, and tweeting about whatever was pissing him off. He was incompetent, arrogant, racist, narcissistic, and obsessed with trivialities.
When the pandemic hit, he was the only world leader who did literally nothing but blather and let people die. His only goals in 4 years were to use his office to get richer and stay in office to stay out of jail.
Trump is an adnomination before Almighty God, a shameful, selfish, pitiful excuse for a man, and an abject waste of carbon in the universe. And by all accounts he sucks and cheats at golf. It’s ironic that his business empire and personal brand are rusting and crumbling before his eyes.
If there’s any justice in this right and godmade world, Trump will go to prison. The people of America deserve nothing less than – just for once – to see some accountability for avarice, treachery, and failure at the top. So help us God.
“The writer’s job is the job of a clown … the clown who also talks about sorrow.” – Kenzaburo Oe
It amuses me because, ironically, it’s now Trump who’s leaving himself twisting in the wind. History will record his stupidity and lies. Over 20,000 [Twenty Thousand!] lies had been documented as of the 4th of July 2020. By the time he’s dragged kicking and screaming from our White House on January 20, I’m confident he’ll hit 25K.
But the truth is that Trump has never been the main character in this drama of corruption, capitulation, and mass death. He has always been the sideshow – Covfefe the Clown, who juggles, tweets, and twists – while the main act plays out in the center ring of the U.S. Congress. There are 535 voting members there, whose sworn duty it is to uphold the Constitution; a duty in which they – collectively – failed miserably.
I include the Democrats in the House, whose attempt at impeachment was effette and weird, leaving behind many valid causes of action.
Mitch McConnell has always been the real Ringmaster in this debacle. Trump is a small man, a little pucker and poot in the long and terrible history of mankind’s worst failures. But McConnell is an asshole of monumental proportions, an anus so vast you could drive a Peterbilt and 2 trailers south to north up his alimentary canal and make a u-turn below the bile duct that does his thinking, without slowing down or risking a jackknife.
So let’s be entertained, if we must watch at all, by Trump’s final twisting and turnings. His efforts to retain immunity from prosecution are entertaining. Although we can do better by simply reading a book. But if we don’t do something to flush out the coiled diverticuli of our legislature, and remove McConnell from majority power, we are well and truly trucked. Sideways.
I’ve decided to post this even though, as a poem, I think it lacks cohesion. I just feel like sharing this facet of my emotional life these days. On the night I wrote this, I felt like being experimental, whatever that means. The Wasteland was rumbling around in my brain. Also Kierkegaard. And I was thinking that we can be aware of events happening to other people, but ultimately every event in life happens to me. All experience is subjective.
1 Fear and Trembling
Hurry up, please. It’s time. The governor has set a curfew now.
I had not thought Death had undone so many. I mean Old Mr. Death, the Old Man. The proprieties must be observed.
He stands on a hill outside town – the insatiable wind.
He stands at the end of the street – dogs barking.
He stands in the door of your kitchen – the oven goes cold.
2 The Sickness
We who were living are now becalmed in the currents of time.
We who are dying are impatient to escape this vessel on the wind.
Why is there nowhere dark enough for rest? The sun is vulgar to a man who would be free.
Pray for us sinners, now and until the Old Man comes.
3 Unto Death
Pale hands at absolute zero then whispers in the empty rooms.
May the judgment not be too heavy upon us.
Hoarfrost – all of the flowers in your garden are sleeping in a mist of tears.
A million dead? Oh no, far more. So count the bodies all night long
then in the morning, sunbright gulls on the peak of the roof.
I would like to give you a gift. Here’s everything I can remember, if I can find a vessel to hold it. I imagine a mason jar that once held Grandma’s jelly, or the wooden bowl my brother made in shop class, almost 40 years ago. How many thoughts can fit in such a space?
I ought to remember a lot of my life but it seems that everything collapses as it dries, becoming smaller before it blows away. So you should be able to carry this home. Leave it in a place where there is light in the afternoon, where birds can be heard in the morning. Sometimes it will bring shadows and rain, but often it will shine.