Expected Disappearance Still young, I learned that postures tended to come with inheritance, to dominate sway in my neighborhood, as unstated traditions. Generations would gather as if in a church, nonsectarian, from St. Louis and its environs assured that their own and prior family souls would guide our childhoods toward modesty. My dad wore dungarees, as did we three sons; kept us out of poverty; no dark suit, no fedora; pushed a bladed mower across our spiky grass we charitably (with minor posture) called “lawn.” Never in a holy sanctuary, I promised some deity (purely intuited without a formal metaphysics), but usual to my home at the Gateway to the West to make my first Atlantic Ocean trip adventurous rather than reverent, fun with no duty. But waves buffeted me, their constancy expected, but not my weak obedience to a dominant, unknown sea, their utter power hurtling a shark, dead yes, but not a lifeless corpse, rolled at me teeth first still intent to consume humanity by starting with me, ripping my gushing flesh, to bleed me pure white. These memories displaced posture. No longer 20, no longer 70, I prefer a peaceful demise, perhaps without chartreuse liqueur and flowers, but frisky kittens rolling across my fingers and nibbling my cold hands, my casket dignified by carpenter's eye. Perhaps friends would surround me, likely to enjoy the late summer sun rays as, ostensibly, I disappear. Go Somewhere without Saying I hoped to deflect an impertinent remark. The best rebuttal I thought of on the spot, a thing clever, yet decisive? Forensic fact admissible in court wraps us totally now, hooks our noses toward unsavory sniffs. And so I temporarily diverted the probe. Of course at issue was defense of poetry. Indefensible, I often hear it proclaimed. My work suffuses modern or recent history, but at only 71 my knowledge may be slight: finer points of understanding passed away with compromise, so decisive cleverness presupposes spin with foxes in their dens; I heard a poet proudly riddle about a truth, critical inexactitude, with fiendish pride: I asked him, remembering a phase, would he repudiate anarchy? He doubted my call. Then I doubted my call, retreated to details of fundamental earthiness, play in the dirt; play in snow; play in a stream sans salmon; play in surf fearing undertow. What more? Then I coined the word associational poem. Facing that question, I shook another week before regaining courage to challenge words. To the initiated, all this goes without saying, so with the rest of my poem I seek initiation. The pearl sits in dew on a lotus blossom. The chief eunuch stands guard over a harem. Which, at that place, would go without saying. Prerogatives I am sorry to tell you
that of all men here you are least privileged. This is a practical result of all men being equal. Of course, you ask why? You ask if this is my joke. I assure you this is history. No sir, resolution is not near. I do not presume revolution. Well, I write poetry. Privileged? Not in the way you may assume and perhaps even less than you. Yes, I have studied our history. Yes, there is an ugly consistency. Yes, do not look beyond greed, nor hatred of our fellow equals. No, there is no logic to hatred. No, greed is apparently unbounded. No, for some there is no restraint on freedom; government is feckless. Therefore, those who believe that superiority ought to rule, are privileged to assert prerogative.
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