Hope
I penned the poem below near the conclusion of Trump’s first term in office. The poem focuses on the hate and corruption crowding the top of our government back then, but also on the hope sprouting up in so many parts of the country.
Recent political events have once again rekindled that hope and given birth to a wonderfully infectious joy. I share the poem to pay a small tribute to what we accomplish when we put hate aside and stumble forward together.
The Creed of the Carnival Barkers was first published in the collection, Feather and Leaf. The “shoe” image is a reference to William Carlos Williams’s Proletarian Portrait.
The Creed of the Carnival Barkers
The new holder of the fee simple for the seven-acre faux plantation next to mine is ripping down his weathered barn to make way for a new garage – five bays, two cars deep. Destruction packaged as progress in the service of the automobile inevitably happens when a place like that exchanges hands for cash. My previous neighbor, who loved old wood, had bought the barn from the children of a recently deceased farmer and lifted it piece by piece from its pastoral scene in england – a weathered house to sheep and snakes and all manner of nesting birds – to its new resting place here in america
resurrecting it as it was in a place where it wasn’t
reassembling his barnstorming puzzle
post-by-post
beam-by-beam
hand-hewn broad plank
by hand-hewn broad plank
red maple
white oak
blue spruce
mortise and tenon
pegs and square nails
outside in the dust
drawn by the destruction
invisible at first to everyone
the ghost of the traveling barker
emerges from the endless purgatory
between death and his oblivion
knows that this is
once again
his moment
sees yet again his chance
to be on top
close the deal
steal the gold
walk away with the prize
he’s on the back of his ghost wagon
as the barn is ripped down
his draught horse chewing
occasionally glancing back at nothing
his right hand raising
a sapphire flask
the elixir
the dazzling torch in the sunlight
the cure for all that ails us
creating the distraction
his left hand working behind his back
from his pocket to the handle
that turns the lever
that twists the rope
as the first beam falls
opening the trap door
that lets loose the smoke
*
stoke anger
sell hate
distract to steal
accuse to escape
lie early and often
promise salvation
divide and claim your divine
blame others
deny everything
fuel fear,
divide further
reward those who flatter
(scar those who don’t)
further divide
create a distraction
take no responsibility
and when all else fails
blow it all up
*
my bmw-loving garage-building neighbor
an open-collar partner at a pe shop
whose wife is the next woman
slated to be anointed to the senate
has billions and a line on the word of god
directly from the creditors of the apostles
to help you and the other followers of the fox
air your white grievances
and keep the country safe
for the daughters of the revolution
and the sons of liberty
he spits over the fence as he talks
salivates over the bullshit you’ll buy
wonders how long you’ll keep buying it
and how he can keep his slice
he’s got your number
savors that he’s figured you out
calculates how easy it is
to get you fulminating
over fetuses fired up
with building a wall
around a job that’s not coming back
convinced he’s got you
stupefied by fake tax cuts
so emasculated that you’ll blame
someone you’ve never met
for your calculated misfortune
and overpay for anything
wrapped in red
he got this script
for the teachers
preaching to your kids
at the charter school
and the payoff purse
for the quotidian jury of your peers
pondering whether you’re guilty or not
of the crime of being alive
he’s bought the
new judge for the trial
who thumbs through the manual
to see if it must be unanimous
his ivy league associates
crank out reams to prove
you will never stop buying guns
night vision goggles and duct tape
to protect your coop
full of dirt and chicken shit
while the fox is feeding inside
he knows how to pluck
the feathers for his pillow
from your oxy-induced carcass
whispers
in case his hounds are listening
that he’s bought the network selling
the red white and blue hate
your overwrought credit cards rack up
got this conviction
about evictions
for not paying the rent
got this algorithm
for spinning layoffs into gold
got this new long slow curve
for you to swing at
to keep america great
to steal your last nickel
from between those two dimes
you lost at the slots
*
it is after all nothing
but shadow and light
the faltering hall of mirrors
at the old amusement park
next to the eutrophic lake
distorting the sky
a maze of silver and glass
angles cut to confuse
head backs and shoulder bumps
backward to go forward
forward to spin around
left turns ending right
right turns ending nowhere
dirty glass in front of
silver emptiness behind
a reflection of a reflection
that extends in a sudden curve to infinity
your portrait distorted at the finish
in the convex glass with the crack
below the exit sign
some days the owners of the fun park
put a clown in the middle of the maze
to entertain you
red frown
orange hair
made-up face
white makeup and blue mascara
multiplying contorting
extending to each dusty pane
so his clown head
like a mirage
looks over the shoulder
of each confused patron
at each futile turn
dazed distracted disoriented
by the cacophonous cajoling chorus
of crowd-dusting hawkers
you
ride the coaster
merry-go-round
water slide
train to nowhere
it doesn’t matter if
you’re black brown
native un-american,
premeditated perpetually gun-toting un-educated
mongrel or pedigree with a four-year degree
overweight caucasian or not
anything but pasty with
preternatural uber-wealth
and you end up after the last ride
with your pocket picked
your lips sticky
from the cotton candy
the color of the morning sky
your crumpled dollars tossed in the basket
at the booth with the little door in the bottom
and the hand poking through
your last ride ticket spent
watching the hand puppets
at the hand-puppet theatre
all dressed like medieval priests
the arms of the puppet masters
stuck up through the lower half
of their half-open socks
you scratch the black holes
on your lottery card
before throwing it away
sip some cheap bourbon
while the software recognizes your face
all the while
slipping
like political contributions
down the slippery slope
to dc
*
sweet cunning conniving flotus
european lotus in the detritus swamp
with your bulging orange trophy husband
and those enormously
absent emotions
glad for the twice negotiated pre-nup
slowly silently incrementally
underneath the hervé pierre’s
and the dolce & gabbana’s
and despite all the spite
of all the god-damned gods of fashion
who are replete with refusals to pleat your hem
or kiss the dew from the cropped grass
on your manolo blahnik pumps
and blue ralph lauren heels
despite all the highbrowed tailors
who make their money
by refusing to take yours
despite all that
despite the jesus wtf black and gray
christmas decorations from hell
we had started to imagine
that maybe just maybe
there was someone at home in the house
another brutus in the senate
slowly silently we let ourselves suss
your rocky to his boris badenov
your bullwinkle to his natasha fatale
slowly silently we started to hope
that you were not just another part of the clan
with you pussy bows and your hand slaps
and your internet campaigns against bullies
we whispered in the dark corners of the web
about the possibility
for the unplanned moment
a sister among sisters
when you would give the little push
at the edge of the platform
swing the little slap to the face
leak the little word to the press
that would topple the hollow monument
he erected to his erection
topple the prick from the pedestal
send it rolling
with a cling clang sound
like a tin-can condom
or an empty can of soda
all pissed out
down pennsylvania avenue
*
as it turns out
despite the pandering and pondering
of the cabernet sipping tech babblers
the boom boom dos equis
drum beat of the revolution
the ever shorter attention span
of the ever shorter news cycle
strangling the ever shorter life line
of almost everyone
it appears
a great many are now of the view
at least for the moment
that life matters
not objects
but subjects
just not yours
they vote
take to the streets
take a knee
topple dictators
laugh at despots
believe in ideas
institutions
in themselves
they see what your left hand is doing
while your right hand is waiving the flag
they see that you have come again
the eternal con man
manipulating human misery and pain
for your unglorified gain
they march parade riot
take off a shoe tear
back the leather
to find the nail that has been hurting them
pull it out
discard it with the rest
of the trash
but not before first hammering off the point
*
next morning
after the riotous razing
i walk over to where
the old barn stood
to collect a few leftover pieces
of forgotten wood
a trespass that is already forgiven
tracks like those of wagon wheels
run in parallel from the vacant spot
to the invisible property line
i do not care
let the con man come
there are things to say
time to shoot the breeze
and we are both beyond redemption
down the road a bit
in the community garden
hidden behind a stand
of old,white oaks
seeds that sprout
flowers of many colors
will someday root
