Monday, September 29, 2014

Never the Right Tool

That woman has turned harsh and crude,
small indications of pain honed in the factory
of her departure, so that she wants to remove

everything that doesn't slide in neatly.
Filing metal is a bother—one likes parts that
offer no resistance, but do such parts exist? 

Better to discard a rough one and buy it
new, she says. She's committed herself
to be so efficient it seems to me more

a disease than a cure. She throws out
the worn parts, but they were hers, too.
Can she be other than she is? I can't.

We each have our methods. I like gradual
decline because I'm slow-thinking—what is
obvious to others brews in me furiously,

then I fuel up or rust. But she is so
organized, on her calendar is the
exact action to be taken long before

she's responded to others. An act of precaution,
no doubt, as if the slightest liquid had power
to bring her back. To what? Not me.

I tell her you work with the tools you have.
Unless you're an expert, you don't even
know what's available. You never

have the right gadgets to fix the door,
but you fix it anyway, squashing this a bit,
hammering that—you can't waste time

searching for the perfect implement.
The door needs to be open now.

Saturday, September 13, 2014



For the time being, the succulent compassion,
streaming from so many directions and gorged
with money, is being totaled and distributed among
the ten thousand children whose parent or parents
evaporated in the jet stream like sizzling ants.
Poor mortals, languishing in a Survivor-less hell,
can again wallow over a case of beer.
God bless the commerce, the way I see
it, so prez., partner, and princes can press forward
with scripture, a license to kill, and all mania
is loosed like a jillion roaches on wee little
folk, we elves, who hapless, get crushed between
two land masses of madness and colored cloths.


Do onto others as others consume, the cleft
dollar that burgeoned higher than a sequoia.
I can't express the intolerance, the sheer rupture
that long ago began with the first exclusion.
One buck for the white man, nought for the red.
No, it was centuries before that—this culmination
neither death nor birth but the interminable middle,
the center centered so all eyes are diverted.
Every answer is answerable, all marrow
a continuous dying, so surfeited with grief
I mouth only the obvious—it roars savager
than a jungle, more tangled, the poisonous berries
gleaming red contiguous with the luscious melons
no one eats for fear of not knowing the difference.