When the Muse is SleepingI fight sleep until I go to bed and then I lie awake, thoughts whirling like a dervish inside my cluttered head, the way the young view love, quite content to be so confused. There, navigating its way through the maze is the word that was the missing child at the carnival, now safe and snug in bed. There, too, is the answer to the riddle, perhaps not the mystery of your life solved but the mystery of my life solved, perhaps. The thoughts are Tilt-A-Whirls and trapezes, and I dare not interfere or they will freeze and I will be pulling endless ribbons like a baffled clown. Air, air, everything air. And because I did not move, I will fall asleep at the hour the farmer rises and wake without the recollections of words or answers; as such, I go about my chores. Tragedy of Commons: A PolemicIf a baseball player is an egoist and cares more about his statistics than he does about his team, what harm is there? The better he plays, the better his team does. This is an economic argument derived from Adam Smith’s invisible hand theory. However, the tragedy of commons argues the opposite. A goat herder who adds a single goat to open land is the only one who benefits as there is less grazing for the goats of the other herders. It is not that the herders receive no benefit; they receive a negative benefit. What is common to most will receive the least amount of care, argued Aristotle. If a finite resource is freely accessible and its use unrestricted, then man, in his finite wisdom and infinite self-servitude, will overexploit it. Naturally. When First I Heard Jazz I watch the jazz musicians and notice the discipline of improvisation. Tunes and tones tempered, yet freer than any bird ever flew. There is a blues element, something that has been fossilized in the air, something that is unspeakable, that cannot be taught or shown but is known when it is heard. It is crocheted into the sky’s tapestry and is but a knock, knock from heaven’s door. The trumpets are descendants of Patmos, the bass an anchored ricochet in my skull. The instruments, like the lyre, can soothe, can heal but only the listeners, not the players. When I begin writing in its rhythms, my veins become the blood pressure pump, my heart caught in the cuff. Relieved of its duties and replaced by a scab, my heart gives up but not out, and, like love, like things of value, it believes it can be restored to newness, and, finally, finally, the beat, the beat… What Words Spoken in QuarrelWhat words spoken in quarrel Have been spilled with great regret, Seemingly hollow, idle Words that have been weaponized, Followed by those incentivized To wash away the damage Like a medic in the field, Still aware of the danger, But hoping for things to cease, While making false promises Meant to be disguised as hope. When Bruce Raised Henry from the DeadThe dog that had raised Henry from the dead
Was gone and this time would never be found, And so we turned our energies instead To Henry, who was three feet underground. I had discovered the dog underneath A torn-down shed where a three-legged bitch Made herself at home. She’d show her bad teeth When she’d topple each time she’d scratch an itch. The pup fit full in the palm of my hand, Its wet, feathered fur capturing my scent, And I feared my mistake had abandoned Him to my care, something I had not meant To happen. But I noticed Henry, who, Since my good friend had tried to introduce Us, had said nothing more than “hi,” come to From what seemed to be a coma, and Bruce-- We’d named the dog after Springsteen—I’m sure, Was the sole reason for his newfound life, As if both runt and litter held a cure For an illness Henry’s children and wife Were certain would be the death of him soon. They were astonished when he went outside Holding his dog and pointing to the moon As if teaching a child, and they cried For different reasons, I presumed. Laughter Ensued, lasting as long as was able. It wasn’t very long at all after When Henry’d have dinner on the table And hold court, telling an ad man story, Quite proud to impress me and the others Of his decadent golden-days glory When he’d smoked Cubans and wore Brooks Brothers Suits and had an expense account that was More than his salary. He had to “schmooze” His clients and drink hard with them because “Good deals were the byproduct of good booze.” And Henry was Madison Avenue, He’d tell us over and over again-- The heavyweight champ of ad revenue-- Though dry, high as when he’d been drinking, then His voice grew thin and he said, “My poor wife,” And I saw him struggling to look at her. His stories changed as he relived the strife, Like when he gave away their furniture-- “I always was a generous drunk,” he said, “Some checks were gone before I’d deposit “Them. Some nights, I just wished I were dead. “I always hung my clothes in the closet, “Though”—as if the word “though” made it all right-- A fact that his wife painfully confirmed. Then Henry finally called it a night. We didn’t admit that we were alarmed Until the first time Bruce ran away, Straight into the path of a moving car. Resilient, he was brought home the next day, Again retrieving Henry from afar. One lick brought Henry’s chin out from his chest And tripped the switch of circuits in his head, No longer was death willing him to rest. Convinced were we Bruce raised him from the dead. Then Henry, in his new lucidity, Said creatures born like Bruce were meant to stray. We wondered when, at last, the dog was free If Henry deemed they both should slip away.
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