Untitled Nocturne

Shhh

you said.

Fingertips
Like a memory
Through my hair
Shhh.


Will,


Stubborness,


What use are they
In the dark?


Like a pot forgotten
I overflowed
And could not contain
All that I carried.


I had got lost
And though there was the whole blank night,
I couldn't have thought
How to put things right.


Shhh,


you said.


Baby,


shhhh.
_____

Please Be Stupid Someplace Else

Darlings, sometimes something or someone comes along that is just so stupid I have to sit up and be ill. Michigan Republican Paul Scott (Grand Blanc) is the latest human syrup of ipecac to stand up and take a stand for good old-fashioned idiocy.

As has been noted, I live in a place where the best minds in the biggest local industry thought that the Edsel was a good idea. Not so much, guys. As has also been noted, our state has plenty of pressing problems, including rampant unemployment, crime, an eroding tax base, loss of population and corruption. Also, the Tigers just can't catch the damn Twins.

Into this grab-bag of problems to be solved, leaps Paul Scott. And which, of these many worthy issues, has he decided to involve himself in? Mr. Scott is vigorously opposing relaxed regulations in granting transgendered people passports. Um, that's a federal issue, for one thing, Paul. See the big map? That's fed-er-al. See the little mitten? That's Mich-i-gan. Oh for pete's sake, let's go over it again for Paul.

Mr. Scott is also opposed to state driver's licences being changed for the transgendered. Ever. Under any circumstances. Quoth Paul:

I'll make it a priority to ensure transgender individuals will not be allowed to change the sex on their driver's license in any circumstance.

"It's a social values issue. If you are born a male, you should be known as a male. Same as with a female, she should be known as a female."

Way to set those priorities, Paul. If the transgendered are allowed to change their driver's licences, what would be next? Parallel parking?

When asked to explain how such a mandate from the Secretary of State would benefit Michigan, he said it was about "preventing people who are males genetically from dressing as a woman and going into female bathrooms."

Oh dear. Bathroom fear. What is it that Congressman Scott thinks it is that transwomen want to do in there? Darlings, I think the answers are obvious. First, ladies' rooms have flowers and a sofa and men's rooms do not. And then of course, is the real reason...they want to go to the ladies' room for the same reason that women have always gotten up from the table and headed there in a pack: they want to get away from clueless blowhards like Paul Scott for a few blessed minutes.

He said his mandate would be in place even for those who had completely undergone sex reassignment surgeries.

Um...using the urinal is really going to be a problem, Paul. But hey. No whiskers in the sink. Speaking of the sink, Paul don't, no, oh Paul don't.....jesus, Paul. That's disgusting.

"That's who you are. You can have cosmetic surgery or reassignment surgery but you are still that gender," he said.

No pulling the wool over Congressman Scott's eyes. Someone has to stand up for traditional values. You are your plumbing. A black man is only three fifths of a person. The only good Indian is a dead Indian. God hates fags. Amen and God bless America!

As for me, my driver's licence and passport both say "F." Some have argued that in my case, the F stands for "fluffbrain." I say it stands for Fuck You if You Don't Like Me. I would make a lousy man anyway. I don't like chili cheesy fries.

All right then, anyone want to visit the ladies' with me? Thank Goddess for our own space. I understand that, in that other restroom, there are Republican family-values Congressmen in all the stalls, tapping away with their black FBI shoes. Omg. So that's why there's no sofa in there! It would only encourage them!
__________  

The Miraculous Golf Cart

A golf cart is found in the La Brea tar pits,

Swallowed by time and turned to stone like a trilobite.



Angel Duran, Dr. Finnington's student assistant, painstakingly brushes away debris from the find.

Everyone calls Angel "El Gordo" and they waddle behind him like overinflated ducks, making fun of him.

A drop of sweat rolls into Angel's eye and makes it sting, but he maintains focus on his delicate and important task.

Someone walks by and goes, "Aflac!" This is followed by snickering and laughter.

Taco Bell bags are left in Angel's locker in the staff area. No one admits to having put them there.



In the evenings, Angel reads Neruda or sits on the little balcony of his apartment, smoking a good cigar and listening to Telemann. 

Morning comes and he is back at his task, though his back aches from the awkward positions he must sustain in order to reveal the golf cart, bit by precious bit, without damaging it.

Jennifer, who is supposed to help him, is talking on her cell phone instead.

She has a face an Italian master would sell his soul to paint.

"I got so fucked up last night!" she is exclaiming to someone.

The work goes on.



Sometimes Angel wonders why he was given that name. In school he was called "Chico." He was the only Hispanic.

Once, he told the other boys his real name. They called him "An-hole" after that.

It was years ago.



The golf cart begins to be recognizable as such.

What is it doing there?

How can it exist?

What previous assumptions will have to be discarded?



Angel likes good wine, though never to excess.

And yes, he likes his food.

Is this a sin?

The crucified Savior on the wall of his living room has never objected,

Never climbed down and rebuked him.

Instead, He gazes sadly,

Feet crossed like a ballerina.

Perhaps he would like some dinner, too, after all the centuries of quiet endurance.

Angel considers this.

Night falls.



Dr. Finnington comes around about noon the next day.

He examines the work and puffs on his cigar as if he were somehow scuba diving on dry ground.

He makes guttural sounds which might mean "good job",

Or, "this won't do",

Or, "I have an unhealthy obsession with young Asian women."

No one can tell.



Angel labors on.

The sun is punishing, and the little paper mask he wears to keep dust out of his lungs makes the heat even more unpleasant.

He knows, though, that the work is blessed, and is something larger than his own desires or comfort.

He knows, too,

That there is nobility in both knowledge itself and in the seeking after it.

Angel's fingers ache,

But his soul is radiant.



One day, filthy and disheveled from his sacred work,

He summons his courage and asks Jennifer out.

She declines, and her careful courtesy in doing so only makes him feel worse.

That evening, there is no Neruda, no Telemann.

He sits on his balcony and watches the sun set into the smog.

On the wall in the living room behind him,

Jesus spreads His arms as if to say,

"What can one do, when women are so desirable, and yet so hard?"

Midnight arrives, and Angel has not yet come back in.



Finally, the ancient golf cart is fully revealed, and then loaded, piece by piece, into carefully labeled crates,

And transferred to the University for study.

Dr. Finnington thanks Jennifer and hugs her, perhaps for a beat too long, but she may need a reference and so she lets him.

Dr. Finnington makes a guttural sound in Angel's general direction,

But who knows what the fuck it may mean.



Angel goes home.

His mother says she is glad he is no longer digging for a living.

"I was an intern," he explains gently. "I wasn't paid."

"Dios mio," she says, and crosses herself at the idea of such evil.

Months later, they are watching the NBC Nightly News with Brian Williams. Dr. Finnington has been honored by some lofty body and given a prestigious award.

There are clips of Dr. Finnington accepting this award, with a pretty young Asian woman at his side. They also show the golf cart from the tar pits,

Gleaming now, and on permanent display in a Los Angeles museum.



Angel walks outside and looks up at the sky.

It is late in the year, and dark, even though it is barely dinner time.

There are a million stars.

Angel, despite his scientific bent, makes a wish on one of them,

Then goes back in the house where his mother is watching Wheel Of Fortune,

And starts to make a sandwich.

He finds, however, that like the saints, he isn't hungry anymore.

"Why do you test me so much?" he asks Jesus, who now hangs over the stove.

Perhaps Jesus,

Wounded and sorrowful,

Was a scientist too.

Angel knows

That one must always consider every possibility.
___________

The Killing Cure

"I've heard all the songs that the children sing

I've listened to love's melodies

And felt my own music within me rise

Like a wind in the autumn trees"

--"River" written by Bill Staines



Those of you who've been lingering in the Word Garden for a while know that I frequently turn my dreams into poems. I had a dream last night that I want to tell you about, but turning it into a poem didn't seem right this time. So, I'm just going to tell it. Okay? Got your coffee? Cos this one is insisting that I tell it.

Lately I've been  on a 30s gangster kick, reading books and watching movies about them. No surprise that little ole femcentric me finds the women especially interesting. Bonnie Parker. Katharyn Kelly. Legend has it that when they came to arrest her man, Machine Gun Kelly, Katharyn threw her arms around him and lamented, "Those G Men are never going to let us alone!" thus coining the term "G Men."

So that probably accounts for why I dreamt I was part of a crime syndicate back in gangster days. The upside was that I was a good deal younger than I actually am. The downside was that I didn't seem to have any clear role apart from being Head Coffee Fetcher and Girlfriend. But then there came a job that only a woman could do.

It seems the big boss, who I had never even met, was in a hospital someplace and desperately ill. Moreover, the only thing that could save him was to receive blood transfusions from pregnant women. Something about the altered blood chemistry. Consult your doctor. In your dreams, of course. 

So I was basically told I had to help. In the dream, the deed itself was conveniently skipped over (Mac? Did you slip me a roofie? Be honest now...), and I found myself pregnant, though I didn't feel any different. A few weeks went by and the big boss recovered. So then some gangster in a fedora and spats handed me a little brown bottle and said I had to drink it. It looked like rat poison or something. I knew what it was for, but I did as I was told. Now you KNOW it was a dream, yes? Since when does Fireblossom just do as she is told? 

Up to now I've been pretty casual and goofy about this dream that I had. But what came next left me upset and disturbed after I woke up. I drank what was in the bottle and in a short while I began having cramps. As soon as they began, I realized two things: that I really did have a life inside me, and that I had destroyed it. I was desperate to undo what I had set in motion, but there was no way, it was too late. I felt horrible grief and guilt and loss. I knew I had done something terribly wrong and irretrievable. 

As I knew I would, I miscarried. Nobody else seemed concerned about anything except that it was one less problem to deal with. I tried to hide my distress, but I had to get out of there and get away from all of them. When I felt able, I walked outside. There was a rolling green lawn and a pretty iron fence painted glossy black, which divided the house we were in from our neighbor, who was none other than Gabriella Moonlight! She wasn't outside, but one of her dogs was, and he looked up at me like, "Hi, Shay!"

There was a little footbridge or stairway leading over to her yard, and I went over and fussed over her little dog for a while, to make myself feel better. He was so alive, and cheerful, and simple. Some guy poked his head out the door of the gangster hideout, looking for me. I could tell he didn't trust me and was making sure I hadn't run off. And that was it, the end of the dream.

When I woke up, I felt so bad about what I had done. For the record, politically, I am pro-choice, but this wasn't political, it was personal, and it broke my heart. Thanks, my readers, for letting me tell you about it.  

In Egypt

In Egypt, in the seventh year of the drought,

The great Pharaoh puts down his tennis racket and says,

"Call in my astrologers, magicians and priests. An answer must be found. The Gods must be appeased!"

"Oy," mutters the Queen. I told you to go with irrigation and agribusiness. But nooOOOoo. You want Sidney Omar and David Copperfield."

"Silence, woman!" commands Pharaoh.



She rolls her eyes and starts in.



"Remember Thebes? It's not bad enough that I wanted to go to Rio and you insisted on Thebes. But fine. We get there and the Sphinx goes, 'what walks on four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon, three in the evening, and grows weaker the more legs it has?'

"You said, ' a monster truck?' I've never been so mortified in my life."

"Do you have to tell that whole damned story over and--"

"So I had to jump in, before we became worm food, and answer for you. I mean, duh, hellooo, the answer is 'a man.' He crawls on all fours as a baby, walks on two legs as an adult, and rides in a golf cart after he retires."



Later, while walking Anubis, the Queen decides to drop in on her BFF, Doreen.

"Omg," exclaims Doreen. "You're letting that animal wear the ankh I gave you!"

"Oh, don't have kittens, Sugar. You know I love you. It was either that or chase his sulky butt through the Underworld in my new sandals."

"Can't have that. So how's His Highness?"

"Not so good since you stopped fucking him in the temple anteroom every Tuesday. Please start doing it again. He's become impossible ever since you cut him off."

Doreen stubs out her Virginia Slim, then looks back up, exhaling smoke luxuriously. "You knew?"

The Queen spreads her arms and croons, "I know everything! I'm the fuckin' Queen." Then she looks at her watch and clips Anubis' leash back on.

"Leaving already?" asks Doreen.

"Yeah. Bangles concert tonight. I'm going with Chris."

"The little number from the Nile croc exhibit? The one that talks into a microphone and winks at the wives? That Chris?"

"Mhmmm."

"Well now. Robbing the cradle, what a scandal. If she's more than twenty-two, then I'm Joan Rivers."

"Bye Joan," says the Queen with an evil smile.

"Fuck you," says Doreen, and they both laugh.



That night the Queen does not return to the Palace.

All across the land, everything is quiet. Even the adders sleep.

The pyramids rest upon the burning sands like Buddhas.

Pharaoh broods and watches Leno.

Then, about three in the morning, there is a little rumble,

And a little drop.

By four, it is raining buckets.

Anubis, squeezed in between two pairs of smooth happy calves, sighs and rests his chin on his paws.

Egypt will last many thousands of years,

But this perfect moment

Will not come again.
___________  

Oklahoma 1933

He wore white shirts and silk ties

With sharp suits and new shoes;

But he weren't much older than that season's cornstalks.



Her days had been empty and blank,

Like dishes drying in a rack;

So when he asked her if she'd like to go for a ride, she didn't have to think it over much.



He was a businessman,

Relieving banks of excess inventory at the urging of a Browning automatic rifle.

She liked the movies and wrote poetry in a neat hand while waiting in the getaway car.



She called him "Daddy."

He called her "Sugar Darlin'."



All throughout Texas and points north,

He enacted transactions and then left the law choking on his dust down the back country roads.

He said, "Am I scarin' you, Darlin'?"

She said, "Drive faster, Daddy, I'm gettin' bored."



At motor courts outside Enid or New Braunfels,

They'd ruin the sheets, then leave a ten dollar tip.

Lots of people knew who they were, but it was a donkey's age before anybody snitched.



It was September, early in the evening,

And they had just stopped their car a minute to smell the sun-warmed country grass and have a smoke when judgement came.

The windows shattered into her eyes and she couldn't see that part of his head was gone, so she covered him with her body to protect him;

The stolen V-8 rocked them like babies in a cradle with every impact,

And she said "Daddy" in his ear one last time in the moment before her heart stopped forever.



Later, pictures of them dead sold for a nickel,

And their car turned up at carnival sideshows for years

With one headlight remaining,

Miraculously intact,

And seemingly ready to light up the road,

Even still,

As if they might yet come barreling down it.

____________

photograph: Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker, on whom my poem is very very loosely based. Some of these things happened to them, some to others, and some are made up.
_____________

Explorations Into Ice And Joy

Col. Sharp waved down to Mrs. Sharp from the Seatiger's deck. He, his men, dogs, and provisions would make way from Seattle, past Canada, and into the arctic. Upon arrival home, Mrs. Sharp's friend, Rachel, was waiting, with her soulful dark eyes. "Will you be faithful?" she asked. "After a fashion," replied Mrs. Sharp, archly.