299.365 - credo

reading a poet I trust
I am struck by her faith
how solid it is
Peter should be proud
I do not trust her faith
or any other
when it came time
for me to commit
I chose skepticism
the way of science
always testing
even what we know
knowing only
what we can test
for me it means
that much of what
my colleagues know
I can say only
show me
in some ways
it is like
walking in a garden
and trusting only
the thorns

298.365 - an unrequested political poem

someone disconnected the calendar from the year
it's almost November, Hallowe'en is next week
yesterday the thermometer's mercury climbed like a stuntman
by noon, we could hardly breathe, by midafternoon
people were being taken to the hospital
or being plunged into pools cooler than their bodies
the calendar says fall has arrived, but summer rules on
air conditioners falter, the power companies complain
we use too much of their product
a capitalist wouldn't understand
but then a capitalist wouldn't understand our system
a wise man wouldn't understand our system
especially not that when it breaks
we do not call for engineers but bible-thumpers
Christians, Muslims, Keynesians, the capitalist cults
and half a dozen others
one bible or another, none of them with anything practical to say
some wise man once said
a people gets the government it deserves
to which I add
and the system it deserves
but that doesn't help much
I propose a matchup
let every bible-thumping group select a champion
and throw him in a ring armed with his book
let them bash each other til only one can stand
then load them all in barrels and dump them in Niagara
the winner can get in the barrel last
or first, his choice
and any bible-thumping dissenter can join them in their trip
then we call in the engineers and let them solve the problems
the ones they can solve
and when the calendar and year connect again
when everyone can use the power he or she needs
and has the water and food he or she needs
then we take time to reconsider
do we really want the bible thumpers back?
or is there some better way to run a world?

297.365 - mistakes

her eyes pitied him
he wanted to jump-stand
hit her, at least slap her
these were his colleagues, not hers
they had rented her for the night, hadn't they
and he did the honorable thing didn't he?
declining?
how dare she pity him!
but she had turned back toward the bar
ordered a refill
and now surveilled the room again
like she had before she walked to him
eyes focused on his
hips swaying in her prowl
ah!  she must have picked another possibility
she prowled away
he couldn't not watch
until the tug on his sleeve insisted
he looked down into deferential eyes
a pretty face, a pretty body
enticing "your friends told me to remind you
our party is over here
perhaps you should join us?"
stiffening, he felt twice a fool
and knew he would for days

296.365 - emptiness

I sit before one of those poems
in which a black dies and is
Orion climbing into the night

the poet is Yusef Komunyakaa
but it could be Donny Jackson
the imagery is intense
the words drumbeats
and the language mixes whiskey and honey
but when it finishes
emotions have been wrung
til no more moisture can be found
and they must hang
languish in air
drying past dry

295.365 - carnival

we went to the carnival, we did
we hoped to find a bearded lady
a three-legged man, a unicorn
we were still that young
instead we found a monkey in a tuxedo
who led us to a tent we hadn't seen
where a woman so disinterested
she didn't open her eyes
asked if we really wanted to join the circus
we hollered "no!" and fled
all except little Hannibal, I guess
whom we saw later
riding the shoulders of the high-wire walker
and being flipped among the trapezists
next day little Hannibal's mom said he never came home
and the sheriff never found him
I guess folks mostly forgot about him
except I know at least one of us
often wondered whatever he was up to
and if maybe, just maybe, the right answer was "Yes!"

294.365 - decorum

ours is not a proper world
a proper world has linens and lace
like the Victorians had
or people Samuel Butler wrote about
a world in which ten pounds made a difference
in which a young man might have an inheritance
settled upon him
and find himself suddenly burdened
with a house to maintain
and retainers he must provide for
a lady aunt to keep up
and a mysterious young woman cousin
he's charged with marrying off safely
he finds himself with a rattle of walking canes
and a musket over the fireplace to explain
all the while learning to wear
his new grey suit and shirt starched so well
he can nearly shave with it
ah, those are the problems to have
in a thoroughly proper world

293.365 - Sunday lunch out

we went to the fancy restaurant in town
well, the fancy restaurant that didn't serve liquor
we went there because we had company
visitors from out of town
visitors who had known our parents
before, well, before whatever had happened
that meant they sent a woman back
who was not our mother and yet was
in some way we didn't understand
and had no one to ask about
we went there because my father wouldn't risk
another meal spoiled by the woman
who had once been such a good cook
and wouldn't risk another child saying "nunh-unh"
when he told a soothing lie about how we lived
it must have been hard to be a preacher and a public man
with a family he couldn't trust
and who didn't trust him
so we went to the fancy restaurant that didn't serve liquor
and endured the being-nice ritual of lunch and manners
that sometimes won us ice cream
and then went home to get out of Sunday clothes
except my father who lived in his
and had to prepare for the evening service
outside the sun heated the almost desert air
and we scattered into it to stay away from home