The Human Tribe

Imagine Earth with a global

tribe of people. No single group

of humans trying to bully, harass or

otherwise malign the intentions of

another group of humans.

Well, that’s what we are.

It’s not hard to imagine at all.

We are a single species all bred from the

same ancient bloodline. All of us

a tribe of human beings.

I doubt an alien visitor from space

would arrive on Earth and insist

on only speaking with old white men,

or old brown men, or middle aged

black women, or insist on speaking

with Gary. Damn Gary.

No. Any outsider, looking at our

planet from space would not have

any knowledge of the perceived

differences we have with each other.

Aliens would assume we’re all just

humans and one human is probably as good

as the next.

These concepts that we’re somehow

different is all myth, designed by the

powerful to maintain dominance over

the weak. A manipulative lie, told for

generations upon generations to

subjugate and control.

We forget the bravery and courage

of our pre-historic human ancestors

who set out boldly from their humble

beginnings in Africa and colonized the

whole planet.

As the Human Tribe.

Except Gary.

Damn Gary.  

Big Blue Valley

                The sound of galloping horses across the ridge-line made Maggie clutch at the locket around her neck. She knew the galloping could only mean her Jackson had not made it back from town. It was as she feared. What she always feared. These were desperate and lawless times with lawless and angry men constantly prowling through the dirty town streets looking for the easy mark. The low down dirty godless heathens of Butcher’s Bay and Whiskey Alley were a constant murderous threat to the peaceable folks trying to scratch out lives in Big Blue Valley. The murderous ruffians in town could be coerced into the dirty work of anyone willing to pay for their evil intentions. Maggie was all too aware of the blood lust gold can wring.

                The neighs and whinnies of the posse’s horses echoed through the small valley Maggie and Jackson had staked for themselves as their homestead. It was a peaceful spot. It had a small brook running along the North end that fed into a grove of small trees and would likely become an orchard someday, god willing. The soil was dark and fertile with room for all sorts of crops. Jackson had said he hoped to grow corn and wheat as high as an elephant’s eye. She now had her doubts.  Maggie looked up along the edge of the valley and could see the dust wafting up through the air as the hooves pounded along the edges. It was a lot of riders, more than she knew who had left with Jackson two days ago.

                There was a dispute with a banker in town. Jackson and the other homesteaders were being cheated on their saving deposits and they were going to town to make it right with Mr. Charles Tisdale. The man who owned nearly everything in town, except the church of course. Jackson and the other men around the settlement and valley had enough of Mr. Tisdale’s greed and corruption so they headed into town to talk sense to Mr. Tisdale. Hot leaded sense if need be. Maggie had warned Jackson not to tangle with the likes of Mr. Tisdale but he told her she was being foolish and that any man that had worked so hard to get to where they are should be entitled to a reasonable conversation with other reasonable men. Maggie could not convince Jackson that Mr. Tisdale was not a reasonable man. Plus, her husband was a fool. A romantic fool. He was romantically arrogant and it was what she had loved about him. But now, it was his practicality she needed, not his taste for romantic heroics. In fact, she hoped she would have anything of him at all.

                The posse of settlers rode along the fence line of Maggie and Jackson’s homestead and turned up toward the main small cabin. The men, nine of them, stopped their horses and dismounted in silence. The tenth man did not dismount. He was lashed over the saddle like a sack of flour. Blood trickled down the edges of the saddle and dripped to the black dirt. Maggie approached the men as they turned toward her and removed their hats. They bowed their heads in silence. Stupid cowardly silence. Maggie looked across their dirty faces and felt nothing but pity for their stupidity. The brashness they left with two days ago was now gone, completely replaced with red faced embarrassment and fear.

                “So, this is my husband, carelessly left slumped on his saddle,” said Maggie.

                “Yes Ma’am. Sorry ma’am,” said John the Slav.

               

                Maggie folded her hands in front of her apron and took a deep breath. She tasted the warmth of the soil blowing in the breeze and could smell the coppery odor of blood mixing with it. The men stood still and frozen with confusion and emasculated fear.

                “Well, you men get my husband down from there then. Bring him to the house so we can lay him out for his funeral I reckon,” said Maggie.

                The men jumped at the command. They were useless without any direction. Maggie watched as the nine men struggled to lift her large husband off his horse and drag him to the house. They dumped him on the table like a potato sack and wiped their hands on their dirty denim pants. Maggie followed them in to the house. She was already out of patience with these unkempt men, dusty from the road, stinking of sweat and foulness reeking in her small house.

                “Get out you men. You get out of this house,” Maggie said.

                “Ma’am, don’t you want to know what happened,” asked Steve McLawson.

                Maggie looked at Steve. She saw he had obviously been crying at some point. The tracks of his tears lining his sunburned face, cutting through the dirt on his cheeks.

                “I know what happened. I know what foolishness you men got into. I don’t need you damn fools to tell me how my husband died. I can see he was shot. I can see that he doesn’t have his own gun. I can see that he’s dead. What else is there to know,” said Maggie, “Now get out. All of you get on your horses and get out of here.”

                The nine men looked at each other and seemed not to understand English. It seemed they had lost all ability to communicate with Maggie or with each other. They shuffled out of the house in a silent parade of dirty, stupid men.  Maggie practically pushed the last man out the door before she slammed it behind him. They mounted their horses and galloped away as speedily as they could.

               

                She looked at her dumb dead husband on the kitchen table. The table they brought all the way from St. Louis. The table that had made the journey with her mother from New York. The table that had been the scene of happier meals. ‘It was stained with the blood of stupid men,’ thought Maggie.

                Maggie sat on the bench next to the table and clasped the dead hand of her husband. She felt the lifelessness of it. The coldness of a vessel emptied of any spirit. His rough hand, worn and calloused, would never swing her around and always manage to catch her hand as they danced at the barn socials. She did not cry. She did not have to mourn long. Jackson had been dead for a while now and he was already beginning to stink. Maggie dropped her dead husband’s hand to the table and stood.  She looked out of the one window toward the rolling valley they had so carefully selected. The green frontier grass swayed gently like calms seas in the breeze. It was a pretty spot. It was such a shame.

                She spent the rest of the day packing her things and carefully loading provisions onto their old wagon. The wagon they had taken all the way from St. Louis. She quickly went about the work. It was just another move, another thing to do. She found her husband’s rifle, still in the saddle sleeve. She made sure it was cleaned and oiled. She was headed to town in the morning; after she set fire to the cabin as her husband’s funeral pyre. She’d see Mr. Tisdale. She’d get her savings from him or put him in the grave.  

I Almost Slipped Today

The silent settling snow

setting snares for smooth

soled shoes. Sidewalk

surfaces slathered slickly

so solid standing is

suspect.

Sneaky snow, smothering

streets, slyly supplanting

steadiness with slips, spins,

and sliding. Sordid and spectacular,

snows, slopping and sloshing,

so simply.

Stopping stifled by slippery

sediment so snowbound;

seems a scam of the seasons,

to so seriously stagnate the

stalwart with salacious snows

and sick slickness.

Sleet and snow showering

from seedy skies, set on

slapping the sinful and the saints

into submission and servitude,

so shovels sit stationary and

stop.

Snow and sleet, set to succeed,

silently seducing streets and

sidewalks with solicitations and

salutations. Snidely smiling and

smoothly sneering at Spring, sitting

in the stands.

Snowy and sleety, slushy and

slick; sinister, silent, smooth

settling snows, still standing

superior, sealing Spring’s

surprises in a seasonal sepulcher.

I almost slipped today.

     

Hep Cat Pariah

Squaresville man, that’s right,

the place between the head and

the heart, where fiery passions are

doused with reason and accountability.

“Oh no, man! That place is a

drag. A real bummer and not for

the truly hip at heart. I’m an artist

man,” you dig.

A coven of responsibility and

moderation, that’s Squaresville.

Where unbridled human passions

are tempered with self-doubt,

shame and the occasional regret.

“No, man, NO! We can’t be headed there.

We’ve got the skee-ball tourney and the

jam-a-lama jam at Rudy’s tonight. The people

will be fired up, they’ll be hip to us”, you scat.

Nope, we’re going to Squaresville.

Where there’s nothing but attention to

detail and microscopic self-examination

over the choices we’ve made in our lives and

the consequences therein.

“I’m not going man. You can go, but I’m

not going! I’m going to drink a bottle of red wine,

smoke some of this awesome home grown,

and roll my head on my neck to sweet tunes until

the sun comes up, man,” you protest.

I see the train now, next stop Squaresville.

Bologna sandwiches on white bread,

Hot dogs with no toppings, white cake,

beige coveralls and bowl haircuts for everyone.

Plus a deep exploration of our sexual shame.

“Serious man. I’m not getting on that train

with you. I’ve gots beats and bones inside me

begging and yearning to roam free like the wild

animal I am, man. An incandescent brightness

comes from me, daddy-o,” you beat.

Squaresville will make sure to shade

that light with responsible insecurity and

appropriate shame. You’ll feel bad soon enough

and that’s good. It’s good to get to Squaresville,

where everyone is judged by themselves most harshly.

“How do I get out of this line man? Is there,

like, a button to call someone or like, a rope

to duck under? Like a, like an adult to help me?

I don’t want to go to Squaresville man,” you drop.

All aboard to Squaresville,

no stops between the heart and the head,

Last call for Squareseville…

An empty train platform,

a cliched piece of paper flutters in

the empty space as the train pulls

from the station.

I Finally Got Around to St. Valentine's Day

                I still say, “Happy Saint Valentine’s Day”, instead of “Happy Valentine’s Day”, because I think there should be a difference between a made-up Hallmark Holiday like “Bacon Appreciation Day”, or “Hug a Goat Day” and a day that is dedicated to a Martyr.   I am not religious by any stretch of the imagination other than that needling faith of a Catholic School childhood I feel poking me in the stomach. I’ve come to my own belief system I’m comfortable with and it’s none of your business what it is. I wouldn’t ever try to convert anyone to my perspective on religion. That’s what martyrs are for.

                Martyrs like Saint Valentine had the audacity of their faith and stubbornly refused to renounce it even in the face of unimaginable torture, death and postmortem violations. So sure, I think anyone with that sort of will, steadfastness and the integrity of their principals should be able to have a celebratory day and not have it mocked as a Hallmark cash cow.  Obviously, there is money to be made on Valentines and greeting cards, candy hearts and edible lingerie and I know that those things have practically nothing to do with martyrdom. (Although, I’m not sure about the edible lingerie to be honest. That might actually be a Vatican approved miracle.)  Yet, as long as the day is supposed to be about loving one another, I’m sort of okay with the commercialism of this day of celebration for a martyr.

                I do believe though, the commercialism should not eliminate the Saint part. It is almost as if corporations and those that stand to acquire profitability are trying to erase a part of history. A history that is of course subject to the perspectives of modern times. Sure, the actions of Christianity and the Catholic Church have not always been stellar. I certainly condemn a lot of what has been done in the name of religion. I don’t believe that by removing the Saint part we are absolving ourselves from the basis of the holiday. (Although there are allegedly no less than three recognized St. Valentines’ by the Catholic Church; so, who’s to say really?)

                My long-winded point is: I’m not a historical revisionist. I am someone who believes there were indeed things in human history that should not be white-washed. By that logic, I have to remind us of the Pagan history of the holiday and that it was probably co-opted by the Catholics. But that’s sort of off my true point of which I’m only getting to now, so if you’ve hung on this long, thanks!

                I just want people to love each other. There’s so much opportunity to be honest, direct and kind to each other that we almost take it for granted. A day that effectively celebrates love is a good thing and should not necessarily be mocked outright. I know that St. Valentine’s Day can be a real bummer, especially for the single folks like me. Nothing says you’re alone on St. Valentine’s Day like millions of commercials, songs, jewelry ad placements and the general joy of couples dining out over candles and hastily prepared entrees at a once a year fancy restaurant. It almost screams to be ridiculed and yet I think we should resist that urge to crap all over it, call it commercialism and try to push it from the collective. Love is pretty great when you have it, painful when you don’t and just okay when you’re not even really sure what the hell you’re supposed to do with it.

                As you try to get through this essay and go out tonight with your loved one(s), don’t let anybody tell you that St. Valentine’s Day is just a commercial gimmick to get you to buy Teddy Bears and chocolates (that’s Hump a Bear Day in November).  You remind those romance haters it is a co-opted Religious Holiday stretching back through human time, perhaps 270 AD, and not just some greeting card company’s greedy money grab. St. Valentine’s Day has been special to generations of people, even before the Hallmarks and the heart-shaped box of utterly disgusting candies. It was something your ancestors, even just a few generations ago, likely looked forward to. A day in their hectic slaughterhouse lives that they could stop for a few moments to love and feel loved.

                So, Happy Saint Valentine’s Day. I hope it is indeed filled with the love you want, the love you need and the love that buoys your soul in troubled times.  

Memory Lane

The strange road of memory

twists through the landscape

of my mind this morning.

Switchbacks and sharp turns of

remembrances stinging my eyes

as I try to focus on the road ahead.

Memories like snowflakes falling

on the windshield; I bat them

away with a quick flip of the wipers,

but they continue to pile on the window

and It’s hard to see the pavement.

The memory roads intersecting with

the present, making me want to hit the

brakes, stop everything and get out

of the car. To walk in the cold along

the edge of the road, remembering.

Remembering that time when I wasn’t

sure what was reality, remembering that time

I was terrified, that time I wept, that time

I made a fool of myself, that time I was filled

with unjustified hate, that time I was broken hearted.

I don’t stop the car on the road.

I have to keep going.

The present is demanding and cannot afford

any standing on the roadway. The present

does not abide any traffic jams of memory.

The morning memories, a sad grimace across

my face as I pass the other cars on the road,

those other drivers, faces focused on their own roads

ahead; breaking and accelerating with each

twitch of thought.

My mind struggling to look forward, past the

curious sadness that patrols the edges of my

travel.  A memory State Trooper waiting with

a radar gun to pull me over and charge me with

wallowing in the past.

Just drive. Just drive faster.

Blurt

Blurt.

That’s what I’m calling

today’s piece.

Blurt.

Because there’s so much

to say in a rapid ravenous

rapacious way, that the only

way to say it is to blurt it out.

I’ve been unable to write as

of late, due to life and it’s

annoying trappings and the words

inside have been building and

piling up against the sea walls.

The levy is breaking and the

flood is coming. The flood known

as: Blurt.

So here, we, go…

Yellow foxes with orange

hair slyly stealing hens from the

coop; smiling audaciously, and

without regret, diving head first in

deniability.

Delicate fingers, absently twisting her long

hair into a tight coil as she reads a

fashion magazine. She’s lovely and

we’re on an airplane and I can’t say anything

to her because, we’re on an airplane, and to

talk to a stranger about how lovely they are on

an airplane is taboo, and just not done.

It’s creepy in fact. And knowing it makes it

all the worse.

The conversations I overhear are so boring.

Doesn’t anyone have anything interesting to

talk about? “My dog did this,” “my brother bought that,”

“I’ve got a growth on my,” “there’s no money in wells,”

“a new hairbrush makes all the difference.”

What? What the hell are you all talking about?

Stop it. It’s causing me to have a word back-up.

A whole week worth or more,

of pent up words, all scrambling to

find a place on this page. Cluttered

and clamoring for release into some

ill-formed stanza with inconsistent

cadence.

Words blurting out in hundreds of voices,

begging for release, for their little

taste of joyful freedom smeared

like jam on toast all over this nice

white page.

All this blurting, essentially amounting

to nothing more than a sort of self

medicating release. A salve to soothe

the ache a word back-up can cause in

the gullet.

Blurt! Blurt! Blurt! These words,

all rushing to the tips of my fingers,

to ejaculate all over the page in a

gross orgasm of language, jumbled

into a meaningless squiggling mess.

And then apologizing after. Because,

I blurted too soon.

She doesn’t get to blurt. I don’t know

why she won’t blurt.  Probably because

my blurting is too selfish to allow additional

blurts.

I really did blurt all over this page.

Please excuse the mess. A flood after

such a massive backlog can really be

quite messy.

I’ll get a mop.

And a bucket.

You know the thing about buckets is…

Blurt!