Browsed by
Author: Bartleby

Father Forgive

Father Forgive

Look on yonder craggy Christ
arms up and bleeding upon the cross
with waning day twinkling through
and flanked by two thieves
the one repentant the other silent–
perhaps thoughtful, perhaps asleep.

Look up towards skinny little
begger dirty ‘neath hasty wreath
of knotted thorns that cut
and trace out a glaring path
atop the holy head.

Listen for the rustle of the
moving robes and the sobs
of a stray friend or two:
“Father forgive them,
they know not what they do.”
“Father, my father,
why have you forsaken me?”

Listen for the Truth
in the agony bent through
the common sweltering pain
the leather sandals
grit lining the souls
momma bawls to watch
baby boy die twisted
and broken way up
against the disappearing day
on a cross next to
some false prophet.

Who woke Jesus up?
Who said,
“Boy, get on up!
You ain’t done yet!
Get your sorry skinny
ass out there
try again!”

And what could Jesus,
fresh from the horrors
of flailed flesh
human abandonment
God’s silence
and the devil’s
chores criss-crossing
infinite caverns
trodding ruthlessly
on failed souls–
spiritual losers
who maybe yes maybe no
amounted to something
on the salty sands
but down here just reek
and writhe in loserness,
what could Jesus then think,
feel, do, as the coach
lovepatted him back into the sunlight.

No I can’t guess,
no I can’t accept,
no I can’t dare,
no I can’t see
what kind of a world we’ve built between the lot of us.

Melancholy Song

Melancholy Song

When the questions of midnight’s skirt,
waiting there,
parted soft and ready
a warm mossy nook
where the young boy
rests his soft-hair.

When the chances run dry
like a springtime creek
in the sandy Arizona
mountainlands
beneath spruce
within that sharp
drifting scent.

When I learn
that I’ve been wrong
all along right along
and now I know and yet
can alter zip,
amend nought,
save nothing
from the pointless
feckless, wreckless,
tossing, turning,
licking, splitting
flames.

Where is God?
Where is Jesus?
Where is the Buddha?
Where is the strength
that knows how to help?

I’m so sorry
said the hand that fell
to his dark-robed side,
floating a half-read note
upon brown and white marble.

I’m so sorry
said the scuzzy dewed eyes
beneath flopsy felt-brimmed hat,
wandered out and caught out
in the dustblown, scratchy blanket
cowboy posture.

I’m so hurt by what I’ve become
said the blood on his hands
in the water on the thick piney needles
in the yellow orange purple blue black
sliding sun against the edge
where mountains cut.

I’m so let down by who I’ve
found within my life,
so disappointed by the one
that I’ve ended up being
too late
and where is the beauty
that had once seemed
so close and certain sure?

Come back please,
someone who speaks and listens
someone who holds and believes
someone who I know enough
to care about.

Come back please,
whatever would make this OK.

Hey

Hey

And what can I say to you?
When playful cards spill onto the ground
and the rickety green table cartwheels apart?

And where can we go?
When the boredom and loneliness
catch us both turning cold,
growing old, indifferent, emptied
of the holy fire
that had once lit the way.

Hey, hey, hey,
what is this I feel?
Not another place to shelter:
the evaporation of all shelter.
Not a brighter perspective:
the silence gathering round
and plunging in like dracula
in his cape.

This death
searing through my ideas,
tiring out my promise,
pitting me against my strength,
knotting my letterman sweater
casually flung over my broad young shoulders.

Hey hey hey
so sorry for this for us for some mistake
I can’t locate or dissolve
for something evil within the broth.

Give me a cigarette

Give me a cigarette

Please.

What difference can it make now?

So give me one, let me smoke.

Let me go

I’m done here

so anyway

we all know it.

Therefore,

give me a cigarette

and let me look along the waves

[Note: I quit; it’s just a poem–AW]
[Note: I’m a fictional character, the normal rules don’t apply-BW]

The things I can’t stop

The things I can’t stop

Everybody’s dead.
Freddy Mercury, David Bowie,
the whole thing.

I’m still alive,
but I’m not famous.
And even if I was, I’d have nothing much to say.

Everybody’s dead,
Abraham Lincoln and John Brown,
Bob Marley and his black mom and white dad,
JFK, MLK, RFK,
everybody all dead.

I mean sure I’m not dead,
but again I’m not famous
haven’t done anything exceptional
will die soon enough anyway.

Memo on Patriotism

Memo on Patriotism

We can complain about the country, but she’s our best hope. So let’s work on her–because we want a good place to go where we can meet our friends and laugh about the old days.

BW/AMW

99 Luftballoons fuer irgendwie irgendwann

99 Luftballoons fuer irgendwie irgendwann

Neun und neunzig Luftballoons,
als ich jung war du warst da.
Bin nicht mehr unendlich jung,
kenne dich auch gar nicht mehr.
Die verschiedensten Jahren
gehen doch vorbei und so muss
man gestehen, dass irgendwann–
Aber wer kann es ueberhaupt
irgendwie sagen,
so schrecklich ist das Gedanken.

So jung war ich damals
im daher leigenden Gegend
wo unsere schoene Unschuld liegt–
wir die damals jung waren.

Was sollen wir jetzt machen?
Wir sind nicht was wir waren
wir sind nicht was wir wollten
wir sind etwas ganz anderes
etwas damals unversehbares.

Grenzen der Menschheit

Wenn der uralte,
Heilige Vater
Mit gelassener Hand
Aus rollenden Wolken
Segnende Blitze
Über die Erde sät,
Küß ich den letzten
Saum seines Kleides,
Kindliche Schauer
Treu in der Brust.

Denn mit Göttern
Soll sich nicht messen
Irgendein Mensch.
Hebt er sich aufwärts
Und berührt
Mit dem Scheitel die Sterne,
Nirgends haften dann
Die unsichern Sohlen,
Und mit ihm spielen
Wolken und Winde.

Steht er mit festen,
Markigen Knochen
Auf der wohlgegründeten
Dauernden Erde,
Reicht er nicht auf,
Nur mit der Eiche
Oder der Rebe
Sich zu vergleichen.

Was unterscheidet
Götter von Menschen?
Daß viel Wellen
Vor jenen wandeln,
Ein ewiger Strom:
Uns hebt die Welle,
Verschlingt die Welle.
Und wir versinken.

Ein kleiner Ring
Begrenzt unser Leben
Und viele Geschlechter
Reihen sich dauernd
An ihres Daseins
Unendliche Kette

Forgetful Child Abuses

Forgetful Child Abuses

The stress of spirit in childtime shame
Is hard to fathom when no longer young.
The heart would care, but the mind looks for blame
or some excuse to hurry and be done.

Enjoyed by men alive but dead to joy.
Past reason hunting lonesome boredom’s pause;
Past reason hated, and thereby unknown–
unreal because we’ve got our certain laws.

Some children say some suppress memories
too scary bad big looming wrong to hold.
Others scoff and say no they don’t so please
no more confusing the easily sold.

You go down within till you hit the place
that hits you back, you spasm body face.

So who knows? And whatcha gonna do
about a hurt once diffuse
unknown but wide
and now compact
angry wounded howl
you could carry in a purse.

Stole some lines:

Th’ expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action; and till action, lust
Is perjured, murd’rous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,
Enjoyed no sooner but despisèd straight,
Past reason hunted; and, no sooner had
Past reason hated as a swallowed bait
On purpose laid to make the taker mad;
Mad in pursuit and in possession so,
Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;
A bliss in proof and proved, a very woe;
Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.
All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

Tied up together, whether we will or we won’t

Tied up together, whether we will or we won’t

Shall I compare you to a summer wind?
You lag more coolly and more flatly back:
Sunlight balloons and bursts dry airs much thinned
by cloudless carefree months adrift on slack.

Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines,
yet holds us still in stillness sweet as flight;
but you I cannot find within these mines
where working day on night we slip the light.

The summer brings her air and fairly spreads
clear peaceful vigor over land and sea;
we eat alone our daily mushy breads
by candles not seen by you or by me.

So long as we can breathe our friendship lasts:
the cords snuck past our lazy ass,
and now, we will or nay, they keep us fast.

Only one thing’s left–
to drop it all,
go back to start
learn ourselves again.

Stole some lines from this one by shakespeare:

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course untrimmed:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st,
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

A mind divided against itself

A mind divided against itself

The people, you see,–they’ve lost the ability to talk to each other, to think and feel together; and so they sink together. The shared discourse has become a mind so divided against itself that it cannot form a coherent thought, make a meaningful choice, go anywhere any good.

Trump and his attempt to pawn off lies insults innuendos (meaningless confusing empty rhetoric), lack of knowledge and thought, and fearmongering as legitimate conversation is a symptom and–unless we see the illness and work to heal ourselves–a serious exacerbation.

Everything is not the same. We have to demand accuracy, honesty, and accountability–yes, from the politicians and the media outlets, but most of all from us, from us citizenry who have the privilege and duty of serving as the final check and balance against madness and corruption. We’d rather play genius pundits, scolds, and misty-eyed patriots, while not particularly considering the possibilities and their ramifications. But that’s a mistake; that’s where we go wrong.

Hillary Clinton is a legitimate choice and Donald Trump isn’t. This isn’t just about politics; it is about the fundamental question of how we as a nation think and feel together. We have to value honesty and accuracy, otherwise we have no coherent standard by which to make decisions. To compare Clinton’s honesty to Trumps is absurd. Polifact’s analyzed statements: Hillary straight-up true 56%; Donald Trump straight-up true 10%. Hillary is a politician; Donald just says anything. I guess, sure, we’d like to see higher numbers for Hillary too, but then again this is measured by statements that someone thought to doubt. Maybe a better heuristic would be the “false” and “pants on fire” categories: Hillary false 27%; pof: 6%; Donald false 88%; pof: 47%. She sometimes stretches past a reliable account; he just spews inane empty dishonest nonsense all day long. Hillary is not perfect but no one is, especially in the US political realm that we whinylazy citizenry have created over the last several decades. It requires serious intellectual and emotional dishonesty to imagine that Trump is more trustworthy than Clinton, or even that their trustworthiness is similar. Hillary is on the whole trying to play within a reality where accuracy and logic and fairness count for something; Trump isn’t. And that reality where accuracy and logic and fairness count for something: that is the only reality where a democracy has a chance.

What do you want citizens of the United States? Do you want a functioning democracy? Or do you want to fuzzy-think and fuzzy-feel and fuzzy-talk this country into another failed state, something like the admirable Putin presides over: unfree to the point of being scary, financially lose-lose (as in the wealth is unequally distributed and not overall healthy).

OK yes obviously! We want presidential candidates to be very honest. But how do we get that? We get it by creating a society and a public discourse that rewards honesty. And how does that begin? By having the honesty to see that Trump’s path is egomania nonsense: the way down into the shambles; and that Clinton–if we do what we have to do anyway, which is pay attention to politics and work to create a political environment that rewards honesty, clear debate, and sound policies–could have a really good, hard-working, thoughtful, just, productive presidency.

And so he walks around in the cool late-September air, talking to himself while the unaccountable lurch and gnaw of medialand wanders to and fro above and through his timid tired head.