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Condone / Condemn (i dag är det tisdag)

I have no idea what she says, or what tongue she speaks. She doesn’t speak English or Spanish, and that’s all I can muster. I haven’t the slightest idea of what she is up to, out in this perpetual gloom. But she keeps saying: “I dag ar det tisdag, I dag ar det tisdag, I dag ar det tisdag…”

I must have an odd look on my face because her lower lip quivers and her eyes well up. I don’t know what I can do for her. I offer shelter. She doesn’t understand, just repeats the same thing. I don’t know how to help. I want to help. What is she, ten or eleven years-old? How can she be out here alone?

So I say “yes!” and give her a big old bear hug.

What else is there to do in this hard-dead world? We once contented ourselves with keeping our families safe and near. Those that were content, maybe had a close circle of friends (some circles were larger than others, some were merely small frayed arcs) — maybe we tithed and volunteered to read or feed others more needy — for some this seemed enough.

But we don’t concern ourselves with the wider world anymore. Is there a world anymore? We’re safe here. It’s all waste out there.

She doesn’t battle this bear hug and she stops speaking. I squeeze to give comfort. She evanesces. Atom by atom all that is left is air.

I’m left at the shelter doorway looking like I’m hugging myself — that is, if anyone were there to look. Who would, who could, in this darkness? I’m alone, wondering why I don’t do this more often. Hug myself.

I go back into the shelter and down the stairs to the writing room. I’m down to a ream of paper, a handful of pens, and two candles… but I must compose some lines…

I.

Did I hear it in a dream?
Or is it a long-distant memory?
I dag är det tisdag…

A drooping of the eyelids in a sleepless
Moment
As you fight the sweep
Of darkness
Upon you. Only the whispered
Supplication
From the darkest corner
Of childhood
Releases you from penury.
Peaceful
Sleep never comes.

II.

I condone what you done…

In the wimple sun
I slapped away the wattle arm
Of the man that bred
Me to a hardened son.

I agree with your version
Of sublime reparation.

I condone what you done…

III.

Condone / Condemn

I dag är det tisdag…

“But in a dream I don’t worry about touching you, ruining you in that way. In a dream, I dance by myself, and I collapse.”

— Carolyn Zaikowski / In a Dream, I Dance by Myslef, and I Collapse

Bully Boy Racers

Boy racers set
In Sevastopol—
Grandiloquence
& eminence—
On the blur frostway line.
Two, three,six,ten & o n e (last)
One.
Boom. Boom.
Vroom. Zoom
With a tambor & villainy.
Clearing out the country
Side. Who you with, sonny? Who
You with?
I’m with thee man
With the shashka
Out to strafe this land
Down
To the bedrock.
Aegean. Black. Caspian.
How’s that for an abecedarian?
How’s that for reach?
Remember the Atlantic
To Pacific boy racers?
Get behind the tank
& follow me down.
We gonna’ slap their hands
Clean of what they hold
& make it ours.
Take. Take. Take. ‘Cause
We can. Bully boy racer,
Bully boy, boohoo!
Manifest
Destiny. We’ve
Seen this B-4.
The bully boy
Ploy.
Always
Unjust.
Always
A
Deadly
Bore.

“I want someone who will stand on my shoulders and punch God in the face.”

— Garth Simmons / Hole Punch