A Man in Chains

It is said that, when he was a young man,
Lincoln once saw slaves in chains
and that the sight shaped his outlook;
whether the story is anecdotal or not
it stands to reason that a man of wisdom
would see things in such a way,
a way in which he placed himself in the place
of others and shuddered at the feeling.

Once I knew a man in chains,
though they were not made of iron,
they bound him as surely as any slave
to the mercy of a limited space
in which slight movement was possible;
and, barring a miracle, they would never break
only grow tighter and the space more limited
until they had strangled life away.

Learning to live with chains cannot be easy,
those gradual limitations ever reaching,
the legs, the arms and the fingers,
the creeping agony of not pain but frustration;
the acknowledgment of loss despite the fight
each motion less until motion is denied
and physical dignity becomes a lost memory
that only wisdom can overcome.

And such wisdom is never easily learned;
forced upon us unwillingly, unwittingly
so many of us would reject it
and accept the bitterness and live in hate;
to live in love and acceptance is the harder choice,
the path stony, the nettles and thistles tearing
pieces of the soul until you would imagine
that the soul was somehow compromised.

This was not the case of the man in chains,
his soul's choice was to flower
amidst the weeds, waste and stone,
to blossom, to smooth, to soften the desolation
and those of us who came upon this
could only stare in wonder
at the difference one man could make;
but we only excused our inactivity.

I recalled Lincoln sickened, seeing the slaves,
and my heart was broken at the thought,
yet I could almost understand a transcendence
which creates such men out of dust, out of toil
that chains do not detract from their essence,
that their chains define us and our weaknesses;
it is to our sorrow that they are called beyond
but a joy that they leave us such gifts.

ARL-23

I've Never Been to France

I've never been to France but I've seen the elephant and watched the monsoons dance on the muddy water churning in the PBR's wake. I've listened to the cant of the CPO's rant but I've never been to France, I'd like to have had the chance. I've never been to France but I've ridden the tornado and watched the bullets dance through the muddy water churning in the PBR's wake. I came in bravado through Laredo but I've never been to France, and I never had the chance. I've never been to France but I've seen beaucoup grunts fall and watched them do the death dance in the muddy water churning in the PBR's wake. I let engines stall but now they're on the wall, and they never got to France, though I'm sure they'd have liked the chance.

The Story of the New Toy

A few weeks ago I ordered a new Macbook.

When it came I was very excited.

It was my first laptop computer.

I'd been wanting one for years.

I carefully opened the box,

Like the adult I am,

Not ripping the packaging away.

Like a child at Christmas or a birthday party.

But the feeling was much the same,

The anticipation,

The hope,

The need.

Oh! the things my computer and I could do!

Oh! how useful, clean sleek and compact!

Oh! the promise of power and control!

Oh! was there anything it and I couldn't do?

So, after carefully putting away the packaging,

I might need it later,

I'm not a child,

I plugged it in, opened it up and turned it on.

The excitement was palpable within my chest.

This was a new feeling.

I carefully went through every step,

I carefully loaded every program.

It was working!

So I carefully closed the top,

And I put it on my desk,

Where it still sits today.

Waiting for the time of need.

Waiting for the desperate moment.

Waiting for the vindication

Of all the expense incurred.

But sometimes, day or night,

My fingers itch and I take it in my hands,

Cool, sleek and aluminum,

I think of what may be.

I practice typing everyday.

I practice loading and unloading the software.

I open it gloriously in my hands.

I wipe and clean every surface gently.

But sometimes, day or night,

I feel the urge to use it,

For the purpose for which it was made.

I don't think I can wait much longer.

an animal inside

there is an animal inside me

and that animal is a rat

gnawing and biting

the heart and the soul

creeping in and crawling out

the spaces left

and i am less than before.

there is an animal inside me

and that animal is an ox

moaning and groaning

the lips and the tongue

stumbling up and bumbling down

the spaces left

and i am less than before.

there is an animal inside me

and that animal is a tiger

ripping and tearing

the meat and the bones

stalking to and lurking fro

the spaces left

and i am less than before.

there is an animal inside me

and that animal is a rabbit

trembling and shivering

the fingers and the toes

scurrying back and scampering forth

the spaces left

and i am less than before.

there is an animal inside me

and that animal is a dragon

burning and searing

the thought and the mind

twisting up and turning over

the spaces left

and i am less than before.

there is an animal inside me

and that animal is a snake

slithering and sliding

the sight and the sound

coiling around and curving under

the spaces left

and i am less than before.

there is an animal inside me

and that animal is a horse

stamping and demanding

the fists and the feet

jumping over and bursting through

the spaces left

and i am less than before.

there is an animal inside me

and that animal is a sheep

calming and cowering

the spirit and the spine

standing behind and ducking down

the spaces left

and i am less than before.

there is an animal inside me

and that animal is an ape

screeching and screaming

the mouth and the jaw

jumping up and jerking down

the spaces left

and i am less than before.

there is an animal inside me

and that animal is a rooster

prancing and preening

the cock and the balls

calling out and crowing in

the spaces left

and i am less than before.

there is an animal inside me

and that animal is a dog

sensing and sampling

the taste and the smell

worrying to and hurrying from

the spaces left

and i am less than before.

there is an animal inside me

and that animal is a bear

growling and groping

the arms and legs

crashing through and smashing up

the spaces left

and i am less than before.

12/31/08 jeg.

The Song of the Gun

    A people dedicated to

    the song of the gun

    the stuttering percussion

    preceding

    the siren's soprano aria

    descending

    into the low chorus of moans...

I love my gun

my gun shields me

from the wicked and the dark

my gun warms me

and I it

my pulse carried to its extremities,

breathing my breath.

I wake afraid in the night

clutching under my pillow

at the night stand

on the floor under my bed

until my fingers touch

the ice of my sleeping gun,

and I find peace.

How easy to still my wife's breathing

if she'd angered me

how easy to solve any dilemma

to cut through

like the man I am

my eye hard and cold

my heart pumping the secret blood.

    A people dedicated to

    the song of the gun

    a swelling bass,

    into crescendo

    the brass credenza,

    into a whimper...

My gun loves me

to handle it

to oil its crevasses

to adjust its mechanism delicately

to settle it in my hand,

filling the empty spaces

my warmth bleeding into its cold.

I wander the street at night

eyes left to right

over the shoulder

my heart small and afraid

until, by chance, my fingers touch

my gun,

my heart swells with courage.

My eyes watch those

who could be dead or dying

all in my power

I, the stronger, they the weaker

the individual and the faceless mob

the armed and the unarmed

my life with my gun.

    A people dedicated to

    the song of the gun

    the rise of the timpani

    the coming cry of the siren

    interwoven in the score

    meant to go unhitched

    to the muted whimpering chorus...

We lie like lovers,

my fingers gradually loosening

as if I'm going to sleep

with my love beside me

nestled in my palm

untouched and unmoved

by the violence all around us.

Oh my gun protects me

from the shadows and the shades

that lay across my soul

doubts that impede my motion

my fingers seek it

as my tongue tastes blood;

shield me from danger.

How easy to let go

to hate that once beloved

the betrayer

if I had the strength I would

hurl it away

the savage moment behind me

and only death ahead.

On His Deafness

I never knew my father when he could hear
he sat alone so often
silent in his silence
and that appeared as normal to me
but now I wonder
at his struggle
to live in the land of the whole
and I wonder
at the demons he fought.

He lived alone and unaided in the world of sound
his work his life, his companion
and with patience he listened
to every voice soft and loud
and spoke carefully, low and melodic,
in a well modulated, resonant voice
never slurring nor blending
nor blaring the words
in atonal unawareness.

As a child I begged him to read aloud
and the Kipling rolled off his tongue
I can still hear him now
the old salt reading Gunga Din and Mandalay
with feeling which transcended my understanding
but pierced my soul
I still have his old book of Kipling
water-stained, battered and brittle
from a hundred sea-bags.

Once he put his head into the space of my piano
listened and withdrew his head
and told me to put my head in there
and play a bit
a dissonant, echoing sound
a mix of unpleasant highs and rumbling lows
assaulted my ears
when I withdrew my head he told me
that’s what the world sounded like to him.

Now when demons beset me
I wonder at his strength
and sadly recognize
myself as one of those who weighed
heavily on his shoulders
knowing that I only took and did not give
that I left him alone and unsafe for all time
pretending he could never wear down
until I saw him dying.

He wrestled demons and put them down
until that old demon death appeared
his hand clasped mine in a rigid grip
but I again too late too little too weak
and with nothing to give
and he worn and wasted waited
until I had left to surrender
and when I returned all was gone
but for a silent husk.