Horror, History, Humor
These poems from earlier collections approach the same subject from three different perspectives: horror, history, humor. The subject is one to which I keep returning and have considered in a few of the pieces recently published here.
The Freedom Caucus
. . . staring in
too mesmerized
to look away
from the gathering
behind the window
the stars surrendering
their watch to the late
rising moon to drifts
of moving shadows
shapes who could be women
appear among the men
against the oak panels
sipping from long stem glasses
priceless red wine
poured from dark bottles
laughing in the flickering
light at what might
be a crude joke
assembling with others
in a widening circle
of conversation
you move closer
to the window forgetting
caution desperate
to hear what’s being said
and then
the waves
of words
like so many
confabulations
whisper
as sudden wind
rushing past
your ears
awash in
guarded secrets
receding then
swelling again
suggesting
to the apparent
arousal of everyone
celebrating
among the finery
that the earth
will not endure
that human life
was never sacred that
the only immutable truth
is power
you wonder if this can be right
frightened and cold
you move slowly
away from the glass
into the night
a familiar voice
rising above the others
through the
jaundiced light
a tall man you recognize
the face the hair
eyes vacant as death
a mouth twisted by lust
his glass raised toasting
declaring indiscriminately
through the pane
that now is the time
for anything . . .
A Historian Contemplates the Contributions of a Disgraced President to a Failing Democracy
we now know
that it was with great trepidation
that the historian
writing then under a pseudonym
set down his observations
about the disgraced
president and his presidency
(there was speculation at the time
that this brave scholar
was a woman not a man
but no one could know
anything for certain then)
in the aftermath of the lost election
and in the years that followed
the myth and the truth about the president
circulated together as self-evident
and it was a dangerous and inopportune time
to think slowly through measured thoughts
formed from an archive of facts
so with reservations
and against the backdrop
of the threat
of a sudden death
by falling
from some high window
the historian
secretly but methodically set down
what he had pieced together
just the salient irrefutable points
just the most self-evident conclusions
about the disgraced
president’s substantial contributions
to democracy
first the historian observed
it was
to the great advantage
of the electorate
and the elected
representatives
of the free people
that the president was both
ignorant and habitually lazy
with no experience at getting things done
in the sphere of politics
(although his fantastical plots
were diabolical enough)
that his monumental incompetence
coupled with his singular pre-occupation
with his own economic advantage
compelled him to act out openly
so plainly albeit ineptly
as if he was the dark star of a morality play
about the weakness of the republic
performed daily in the public square
for the benefit of any who wanted to see it
demonstrating with iphone clarity
and amazon punctuality
what needed mending
what had to be rewoven
in democracy’s great tapestry
the rents and the tears
the places where the mice
had been nesting
where the threads were worn
or cut and gone
from the work
of unattended vandals
where the borders had frayed
where certain of the beautiful colors
so carefully incorporated
by the weavers
into the original design
had faded
where images
set at the heart of the weave
had been stained black by mold
for all to see
second but of no less significance
to the creative mind
of this undisclosed historian
was the joke ordained by god
that an ego so bent on despotism
should be bound in the body
of a man with small hands
as if with a perspicacious punctuality
to offer a continuing parody of dictators
demonstrating that strongmen
and would-be strongmen
never do the work that requires
the determination of larger
more skilled appendages
that despots are incapable
of the big lift on their own
that they do not shake with any vigor
the soiled hands of farmers
or the rough hands of factory workers
(for fear perhaps of being crushed)
that they have no skill
in comforting the dying
with a cupped palm on a feverish forehead
or the soft caress to a face filled with despair
rather the historian noted
the great oligarchs
had mastered the exploitation
of the overworked limbs
and the body parts of others
to divide up the world
exhorted those born of grievance
to violence against each other
dissembled for the disenfranchised
about a franchise
that offered them nothing
used the abused
then abandoned them
on payday
small hands
for all to laugh at and see
at this point to emphasize
the unflagging determination
of this unknown man of history
it may be worth pausing
this recounting to point out
that for less-gifted recorders of history
(many of whom once chaired mighty departments
and held exalted seats at superlative universities
before they perished)
the exposition and its substantial findings
would to this point
have been enough to publish
but for the unnamed recorder
of the facts
there was still more
that was essential
third he documented
that the president
flaunted with a certain pride
that at his very core
he was misogynist
a serial philanderer
an advocate of rape
a companion to pedophiles
a swollen consummation
of debauchery looped
through post and tweets
rallies interviews and lawsuits
it was all there
and even more
that the president
laid bare
like putin’s chest
on horseback
with unparalleled clarity
the foibles of elevating
nepotism to the round
table of government
for he had chosen
a pocket cabinet of confidants
who were for-hire media buffoons
a cabal of big-chested barbies
a shelf of bobble-head
sons and adopted sons
with great empty skulls
and lean and hungry looks
and dead eyes
and last
but not least
to this tireless student of history
were the matters
of the president’s wealth
which could not be counted
and the love of the president’s father
which did not come
and an unbridled need
of the president
to win and be adored
which was matched only
by the unbridled need
of his followers to adore him
right there
in front of everyone
each one
every time
for anyone
who wanted
to see
to see
and with that
the unsung bartleby of the archives
(before being consigned
to eternal anonymity
and state sponsored ignominy)
ended his work
with the understated conclusion
that the president
had offered
so much
for all
to see
on how to fix
what was broken
that it might
have been hard
for them
to see
any of it
at all
paper copies only
of the unsigned treatise
quickly began to circulate
in secret among the citizens
in contrast and
as an illegal counterpoint
to the official retelling
of the presidency
that was everywhere
passing hand to hand
for many years
following the lost election
when the former president
returned to high office
without casting a vote
The Duck
it is late
in the year
the time when
the wind gathers gray
clouds and cold air
an old hermit from the mountains
stands with a wobbly cane
at a carved temple door and speaks
to the morning air through the blue haze
of a smoldering smudge of sage
-better to be woke
than half asleep
clinging to a dream
that fades from white
as if to mark the season
the geese of each great state
move one state south for winter
the dabbling drake looks
to the sky to see what lies at the horizon
his home is the wet glades that stretch
forever into one long swamp
with no skill to dive
beneath the water
to be nourished by what grows deep
he opens his orange beak
and with his raspy voice
quacks up
