A Little Bit of a Rant

 

There’s a long list of things I’ve been meaning to write about, but time is a cruel task master, and she’s been whipping me into the mundane tedium of “life as normal” with devious intent. 

Not that I mind normalcy,  the regular everyday-ness of life; it’s not too bad most of the while. But there are times when the madness scales the walls of mediocrity and must stand on the corner in ragged

robes, proselytizing about the terrors of a normal life.   

Let me just fix my tattered robes and get on my soapbox, which is cardboard now, and is smushed under my weight, so forget that.  I’ll just do this on the sidewalk in front of the old paint store. 

I’ll just come right out and say it; we are facing an existential crisis to Democracy in the US and abroad, and action must be taken to defeat fascists, dictators, autocrats, and anyone who thinks Putin is a swell guy.  He’s not. He’s a despot bent on dominating the West in an antiquated view of Imperialism and, frankly, I don’t know what his ultimate goals are. It’s a mystery to me why in the modern age any country would make a land grab. I think men in power miss World Wars sometimes and want to etch their names into some immortal history at the bottom of a forgotten landmark in some empty field. 

Donald Trump is a narcissist ass-munch who is a direct threat to the actual American way of life. Do not vote for this circus of a human being. He is the epitome of everything wrong with the US. He only cares about himself and not the American people. He craves power and nothing more. He is driven by his own lust for authority, or maybe his Dad didn’t hug him enough, I don’t know. But I do know that his serious overtones of self-congratulation, impossible thinking, and clear misunderstanding of the fundamentals of the American Republic makes me think he’ll want construction to start on a Death Star next. You know, with Space Force.  

A true man of the people puts the people first, he does what he can to help raise people up, facilitate progress, and generally help the Country achieve the lofty goals of a Republic;  not divide and insult whole groups of citizens through the worst insensitive foulness I’ve ever heard.  Politics is a nasty business, but those individuals that sacrifice their personal ambitions for the ambitions of a unified citizenry will almost always get my vote. As a representative of the people you must forego your personal beliefs about religion, social order, religion again, mostly religion, and do what is best for the people, rather than for just your base. I don’t care if you don’t like unwed teenage mothers, you should still do everything you can to help them get the assistance they need to be fruitful members of our society.  

It really sickens me at times, the state of my Country and I’m sadly terrified of the future. I was once extremely optimistic about what was to come; now I don’t even want to leave the house for fear of some gun-toting racist idiot will start shooting up the 7-11 because they’re filled with hate over some abstract belief about something they don’t understand or care to try and understand. Because Conservative news outlets told them so-an-so was evil or cultivated their hatred into action by not condemning the actions of those in power who say or act in ways unbecoming of a tolerant and progressive society.  

There are problems in this Country, I’m not so naive to think everything is wonderful. I know we have serious economic, educational, and social issues to address, but I’d rather have an elected official working towards finding reasonable and rational solutions with any eye towards progress, rather than trying to drag the country back to 1958. It is not normal to want to go backwards to a “simpler time”. It was not simple. It was not easier. It was not a Golden Age. Looking at history through Rose-colored glasses only make you blind, not wistful. 

I am baffled by the assault on women’s rights. That somehow women, again, cannot be trusted to make their own decisions about the reproduction of our species.  I was raised to see women as equals without condescension or recriminations. So I can’t understand this right leaning stance that women cannot be trusted, and States need to enact legislation to “help” women make decisions about their own reproductive rights. The end of Roe V. Wade by this Supreme Court made me sick, and it shows the cowardice of Conservative ideology. To let people have any control over their own lives is akin to blasphemy as far as Conservatives believe and I find that reprehensible. 

I am a firm believer in the Separation of Church and State. I believe religion has no place in the halls of power. Any religion whatsoever. So I’m disturbed when individuals in power use it as crutch to justify legislative strategy. The King of England, King George, was allegedly placed in power by God and we had a whole rebellion against him and in the aftermath, we made damn sure that no elected official could ever claim that they had been appointed by God and were therefore “infallible”. God is not a politician. God or Gods are an abstract concept to explain the things we do not understand. 

I will fight for a man's rights, but not his God. 

This street corner is getting chilly, and my robes are fluttering in this strange winter/spring breeze. So I will step off my smushed soapbox for now. I feel better getting a lot of that off my chest. I hope my ranting and raving can help expose the warnings of complacency in these “normal” times. We have to continue to fight for the true freedoms we have, for the rights of the marginalized, oppressed and forgotten. We have to embrace each other with kindness, humility, and patience, since none of us are getting out of this normal life alive. 

Tune next time when I might go pack to writing a poem about, I don’t know…, cats maybe.

Where Does it Go

 

“How can there be

such a deep, dark, hole,

so vast and wide, so clearly there,

yet hardly noticeable in the

middle of your forehead,” I asked.

 

“Hm?” said the man, “The Black Hole?”

 

“Yes, Sir, the black hole, smack dab

in the middle of your forehead,

sucking in all your hair, and skin,

muscle, and brain.

Yes Sir, that hole,” I said.

 

“I’ve had it since I was a kid.

Just one of those things I guess.

Some folks have moles or freckles,

I have a black hole in

my forehead,” said the man.

 

“I haven’t seen anything quite

like it,” I said.

I tore a corner of my newspaper and

gently floated it towards the hole,

it was quickly sucked in.

“Where does it go,” I asked.

 

“Where does what go,” asked the man.

 

“The black hole on your face. Where

do items go once they get sucked in,” I asked,

“Do they come out somewhere?”

I tried not to stare at the swirling infinity

furrowed across his forehead.

 

“This is my stop,” said the man as he stood

from his seat on the bus. I heard a faint

whooshing sound as he stepped past me,

and exited at the rear door of the bus.

I watched him as he stepped down onto the sidewalk.

 

A pigeon flew to close to him and was

sucked in to the black hole of his

forehead. A few lingering feathers in the air,

followed the bird into the black void.

No one else seemed to notice.

No one else seemed to care.  

 

 

Worthy Luster

 

Worth, is a shiny thing,

or dulled and dim,

glittering and gold,

muddy and dark;

depending on ones

perspective.

 

How much worth,

is worth; worth,

when we don’t know

the worth of its

worth?

And usually too late.

 

I often cannot comprehend

my own worthiness,

or the worthiness I have

in the minds and eyes of

others.

Am I shiny and gold, or dull and dim?

 

The worth of these words,

hastily typed,

the first words of 2024.

Can I calculate their value,

their worth, to me,

to you?

 

Is there worth in merely existing

as prose on a page,

or as a background actor

playing on Broadway,

or the busker in a subway,

playing harmonica over an empty cup.

 

Worthy deeds,

worthy of praise,

or worthy of derision,

splattered with suspicion,

self-depreciation, and

general mistrust.

 

Is it worth the worry?

Is it worth the anxiety?

Shiny and gold.

Dim and dulled,

worthy of mysterious luster.

 

And So It Goes

 

And so it goes,

another year passes

us by in the blink

of an eye.

And I hardly remember

most of it.

 

It was a good year,

if memory serves me,

life has sort of settled

down in a good way,

and it’s all entirely

… good.

 

There’s no more late

nights at a bar, sipping

sorrows from whiskey,

as sexy couples twirled

across imaginary dance floors

and bartenders loved me.

 

No staring at pulsing neon signs,

illuminating the dark confines of

old man bars, rife with crusty

opinions and dizzying conversations

about life, religion, or politics.

 

Another year freed from the

shackles of intolerable loneliness

and depression.

No dark valleys of the mind,

crowded with the melancholy thoughts

of the perpetually alone.

 

Untroubled, but still…,

troubled with the state of the World,

race, religion, politics, sex, booze,

and all the tidbits that seems to

fill up every year.

 

There’s something about the past

year, something that retrospectively

seems inherently good, but I couldn’t

tell you any specifics, it was just,

a good year, like fine wine or old

cheese. And so it goes.

Meh at Best

 

I haven’t felt the ink

in my veins for a while,

as it were.

The urge to mash these

words onto the page,

has been, “meh” at best.

 

It’s okay to have a period

wherein the awesome magic

of prose seems to dwindle for

a time. Where things don’t seem

so fantastic or awe inspiring.

 

When things are just,

“meh”, or, “So-so”, or

just “blah”.

Manilla, milquetoast,

bland, without form

or structure.

 

Amebic,

a great sedentary blob,

of ennui and

laissez-faire,

curling the fingers into

mitts, rather than flying

over the keyboard with aplomb.

 

I get the sense that I’ve

said it before,

it’s been said before,

what ever it is that needs to be said,

has been, to whomever needed

to hear it.

 

Yet there’s still something,

thumping in my chest,

an irritated beating,

a thudding anxiety,

begging for my fingers,

to uncurl and unleash

their typing terrors.

 

But then,

“Meh”.

 

 

Buckle your Hats

 

The Pilgrim’s classic

buckle hat is fiction.

No buckle hat ever existed

and no Pilgrim ever

wore one.

 

A buckle-hatted,

white male,

standing a long table

thanking the Natives

for not letting them die.

 

It is, however, that image

that so permeates the

Thanksgiving Holiday,

that we simply accept the

myth as canon and eat.

 

I imagine that Pilgrim winking

to the other Pilgrim’s

the whole time, nudging others

with a knowing wry smile,

saying, “Thanks, but we’ll take it from here”.

 

It is our nature to believe

the legend over the truth,

since legends are often far more

interesting than the cold,

hard facts.

 

We’re a culture built on myth,

mysteries and stories,

ready to believe there’s a monster

under the mountain, belching

lava and destruction, rather than the truth.

 

Despite our mythologies,

we are thankful,

for those that abide by the truth,

and keep us from running off cliffs

in panicked frenzies.

 

In our buckle-hats,

waving muskets after vicious turkeys,

as the Natives point, and laugh, as

we careen over the edge of the

abyss, towards legend.

 

Happy Thanksgiving 2023

 

 

Learned Anything

 

I agree with some poets

who say it’s difficult to

write poetry in difficult

times.

 

The effectiveness of the words

is infantile and helpless,

when global doings are

transpiring.

 

What great deed can be accomplished,

with the meager strings of

vowels and consonants,

so timidly conspiring in the dark?

 

Will trench poetry emerge as the

salve, soothing the injuries inflicted

by despots and territorial

pissings?

 

The afterthoughts of afterthoughts,

written in blood, smeared on hospital

walls, as warnings, as condemnations,

as epitaphs.

 

Flag waving and heavy footfalls of

militaries marching, through deserted

streets, the music of lost souls, echoing

through alleys and history.

 

Graveyards alive with flags for

the fallen, flapping in foul breezes,

with a few sad words hastily written

on tombstones.

 

The poetry of the now,

seems too weak to fight the onslaught

of the present, and it’s perhaps only in

memory, wherein peace resides.

 

The future, reflecting on our words,

will be the judge of history, so maybe,

the difficulty will be worth it, and what seemed

ineffective, will be remembered.

 

Although I’m not sure we’ve learned

anything yet.

___________________________________________________________

Photo:  https://clarkcrenshaw.photodeck.com/media/857a4301-751f-460d-96f5-cb0d47ad1a19-old-school-room-2