—Poetry by CL Bledsoe, Woodbridge, VA
—Photos of Moonflowers Courtesy of Public Domain
CAPITAL T TRUTH
It’s hard to tell what’s true, especially
when there’s so much to learn. A man
steps on a thorn, which is gingerly removed
and bandaged while his stinking foot rots
off. A woman falls into a river and is revived
by a delicious chicken soup enema. The rich
are given more money so that the poor
will live better lives, cheered by the untouchable
gold statues where the free hospitals used
to be. It’s not just in Kansas. But at least Kansas
knows it’s Kansas. The easier life gets,
the harder it seems. People just want
to be filled by something that doesn’t dissipate
when the breeze changes. The warm lump
of assurance in the gullet, something to grind
the days against. Someone told us we deserve
it. Someone else said we didn’t. All
of it is killing us a little bit, but never mind.
Our bodies will make good fertilizer someday.
It’s hard to tell what’s true, especially
when there’s so much to learn. A man
steps on a thorn, which is gingerly removed
and bandaged while his stinking foot rots
off. A woman falls into a river and is revived
by a delicious chicken soup enema. The rich
are given more money so that the poor
will live better lives, cheered by the untouchable
gold statues where the free hospitals used
to be. It’s not just in Kansas. But at least Kansas
knows it’s Kansas. The easier life gets,
the harder it seems. People just want
to be filled by something that doesn’t dissipate
when the breeze changes. The warm lump
of assurance in the gullet, something to grind
the days against. Someone told us we deserve
it. Someone else said we didn’t. All
of it is killing us a little bit, but never mind.
Our bodies will make good fertilizer someday.
MARY OLIVER
I’m supposed to tell you a story
to make you forget how sad it is
you’re going to die without having
enjoyed most of your life. Well, okay.
Nature is a good start, like how these
little gray birds roll in the dust on
a path outside my apartment, avoiding
the broken glass, stray cats. They do
it because their bodies make too much
oil, which is good for helping them be
aerodynamic, but not when it’s too much.
This is a metaphor for how adaptations
often overwhelm our lives. But it’s also
about birds, so Mary Oliver can eat it.
But not really, because she’s really good,
if you’re the kind of person who can
afford a garden. I still need a joke, though.
They’re hard, especially in poetry, which
is supposed to be too pretentious to laugh
at itself. Here’s one my daughter is working
on:
Knock knock.
(Who’s there.)
Doorbell repairperson.
(Doorbell repairperson who?)
Ding dong.
She’s still working on it. She’s eight.
Don’t be so fucking judgmental.
I’m supposed to tell you a story
to make you forget how sad it is
you’re going to die without having
enjoyed most of your life. Well, okay.
Nature is a good start, like how these
little gray birds roll in the dust on
a path outside my apartment, avoiding
the broken glass, stray cats. They do
it because their bodies make too much
oil, which is good for helping them be
aerodynamic, but not when it’s too much.
This is a metaphor for how adaptations
often overwhelm our lives. But it’s also
about birds, so Mary Oliver can eat it.
But not really, because she’s really good,
if you’re the kind of person who can
afford a garden. I still need a joke, though.
They’re hard, especially in poetry, which
is supposed to be too pretentious to laugh
at itself. Here’s one my daughter is working
on:
Knock knock.
(Who’s there.)
Doorbell repairperson.
(Doorbell repairperson who?)
Ding dong.
She’s still working on it. She’s eight.
Don’t be so fucking judgmental.
POLAR BEAR
There’s a polar bear in my pants. No.
I mean there’s a polar bear wearing
my pants, walking around the office.
He grumbles like everyone else,
bumping the bathroom door open
with his rump to keep from touching
it. Drinking bureaucracy in like stream
water. We had to prop the breakroom
doors open to get the smell of nuked
seal and elk out. Steve asked where
the bear’s unicycle was, and they
transferred him to another department
over in Rensen building. I didn’t train
the bear to wear my pants; I taught
him to talk and write cursive, but
the pants thing he learned himself.
I thought, what could it hurt? I thought,
the ice is melting, what can I do to help?
It was the only vacation I took this year,
except for the one where I stayed in bed
for a week. I trudged to the unbridled
wastelands of the north, which is what
I call my living room, then I caught
a cheap flight to the arctic circle. It wasn’t
hard to find a polar bear looking for work.
There were a bunch of them hanging
out in front of the building supplies store—
some local place I’d never heard of. I hid
him in my luggage because I didn’t have
a clue where to get a passport up there.
He said, “Hey Cort, Cortorino, how about
you get me some scrumptious seal cakes?
I’m starving.” It’s true. He was thin
as hope. All I could find were these fish
sticks that’d been recalled for having seal
in them. It was on all the news shows.
“I’m going to get you on your feet,” I told
him as he gulped them down. I taught him
to hurry up and wait, to smile through
the sadness and talk to strangers about
the weather. His whole family had starved
to death the summer before. It wasn’t hard.
When my place advertised an opening, he
applied with the resume we’d made. “I wanted
to surprise you,” he said. “You sure look
surprised.”
There’s a polar bear in my pants. No.
I mean there’s a polar bear wearing
my pants, walking around the office.
He grumbles like everyone else,
bumping the bathroom door open
with his rump to keep from touching
it. Drinking bureaucracy in like stream
water. We had to prop the breakroom
doors open to get the smell of nuked
seal and elk out. Steve asked where
the bear’s unicycle was, and they
transferred him to another department
over in Rensen building. I didn’t train
the bear to wear my pants; I taught
him to talk and write cursive, but
the pants thing he learned himself.
I thought, what could it hurt? I thought,
the ice is melting, what can I do to help?
It was the only vacation I took this year,
except for the one where I stayed in bed
for a week. I trudged to the unbridled
wastelands of the north, which is what
I call my living room, then I caught
a cheap flight to the arctic circle. It wasn’t
hard to find a polar bear looking for work.
There were a bunch of them hanging
out in front of the building supplies store—
some local place I’d never heard of. I hid
him in my luggage because I didn’t have
a clue where to get a passport up there.
He said, “Hey Cort, Cortorino, how about
you get me some scrumptious seal cakes?
I’m starving.” It’s true. He was thin
as hope. All I could find were these fish
sticks that’d been recalled for having seal
in them. It was on all the news shows.
“I’m going to get you on your feet,” I told
him as he gulped them down. I taught him
to hurry up and wait, to smile through
the sadness and talk to strangers about
the weather. His whole family had starved
to death the summer before. It wasn’t hard.
When my place advertised an opening, he
applied with the resume we’d made. “I wanted
to surprise you,” he said. “You sure look
surprised.”
SOME THOUGHTS ON MOONFLOWERS
Skitterings in the night, like
bristly feet and dripping teeth.
I am not butter, I don’t
care what the pamphlets say.
You may not fry anything in me.
Magic lacks melatonin, which
is why it hides from the sun.
Ask anyone who knows.
Shadows. Moving lights.
If all the evil could shut
the fuck up that would be
great. I’m trying to die, here.
My head hurt for days because
I couldn’t afford to keep up
with my meds. Don’t tell me
it’s about anything other than
greed.
It’s always raining somewhere
n mi hart. *tap tap*
Maybe the mice are putting on a symphony.
Maybe the moonflowers are going for a walk.
Maybe the dust bunnies are thirsty for blood.
When I go on meds, I can’t see anything
inside my head, so I have to write
to have thoughts.
It’s about keeping myself safe because
the squeaky wheel gets evicted.
On a scale of one to ten tell me how
Capitalism is treating you today.
The first two don’t count.
These nights when I’m waiting to be
recycled, I think about the warmth
of your body in my arms
and remember there was a time
however brief
I didn’t feel alone.
haha no take-backs.
Skitterings in the night, like
bristly feet and dripping teeth.
I am not butter, I don’t
care what the pamphlets say.
You may not fry anything in me.
Magic lacks melatonin, which
is why it hides from the sun.
Ask anyone who knows.
Shadows. Moving lights.
If all the evil could shut
the fuck up that would be
great. I’m trying to die, here.
My head hurt for days because
I couldn’t afford to keep up
with my meds. Don’t tell me
it’s about anything other than
greed.
It’s always raining somewhere
n mi hart. *tap tap*
Maybe the mice are putting on a symphony.
Maybe the moonflowers are going for a walk.
Maybe the dust bunnies are thirsty for blood.
When I go on meds, I can’t see anything
inside my head, so I have to write
to have thoughts.
It’s about keeping myself safe because
the squeaky wheel gets evicted.
On a scale of one to ten tell me how
Capitalism is treating you today.
The first two don’t count.
These nights when I’m waiting to be
recycled, I think about the warmth
of your body in my arms
and remember there was a time
however brief
I didn’t feel alone.
haha no take-backs.
THE ENEMY OF MY ENEMY
IS PROBABLY ALSO MY ENEMY,
JUST WITHOUT A GOATEE.
For example, no man can wear beige
and remember the taste of the sun. Look,
Jim, just because you went to private
school doesn’t excuse you from a responsibility
to understand physics. It doesn’t matter how
good you look in lacrosse shorts when they
come to reclaim the fields. Sweat soured
on skin like a father’s gaze. A bell that never
stops ringing. I want to laugh like we used
to, talking shit about the pines. Maybe
you’re right, Jim. Maybe there’s nothing
but quiet cars. The flimsy logic of regret.
There’s a certain way of forgetting
that happens every night when you try
to catalogue what remains. It has to do
with never going into the kitchen,
which is the best way of keeping
the floor clean.
IS PROBABLY ALSO MY ENEMY,
JUST WITHOUT A GOATEE.
For example, no man can wear beige
and remember the taste of the sun. Look,
Jim, just because you went to private
school doesn’t excuse you from a responsibility
to understand physics. It doesn’t matter how
good you look in lacrosse shorts when they
come to reclaim the fields. Sweat soured
on skin like a father’s gaze. A bell that never
stops ringing. I want to laugh like we used
to, talking shit about the pines. Maybe
you’re right, Jim. Maybe there’s nothing
but quiet cars. The flimsy logic of regret.
There’s a certain way of forgetting
that happens every night when you try
to catalogue what remains. It has to do
with never going into the kitchen,
which is the best way of keeping
the floor clean.
DREAM WOMAN
I dream about a woman I’ve never met.
When I wake up to pee, I come back
to find her smirking in a different room.
She’s sick in a way she won’t explain.
There’s wind howling outside the way
it did on that lonesome house on a hill,
rain trying to tear its way in. We said
it was witches scratching their fingernails
on the bricks, but it’s old white men
trying to kill people over hairdos. I learned
that a long time ago. But maybe if I knew
the secrets of cats—which are mostly
just what they’ve killed recently and where
it’s hidden. It’s not every night this
woman needs my help, but won’t say
how. I’ve trained my whole life for this.
She’s getting prettier, the older I get.
I wish I could say the same. Her eyes
are an exhale, softer than they used to be,
and her lopsided smile is warmer, tinged
with the pain of waiting but also hope.
If I don’t meet her soon, I’m afraid neither
of us will be able to help the other. I’m sure
this is me being selfish, somehow. I’m sure
I’m doing something wrong.
I dream about a woman I’ve never met.
When I wake up to pee, I come back
to find her smirking in a different room.
She’s sick in a way she won’t explain.
There’s wind howling outside the way
it did on that lonesome house on a hill,
rain trying to tear its way in. We said
it was witches scratching their fingernails
on the bricks, but it’s old white men
trying to kill people over hairdos. I learned
that a long time ago. But maybe if I knew
the secrets of cats—which are mostly
just what they’ve killed recently and where
it’s hidden. It’s not every night this
woman needs my help, but won’t say
how. I’ve trained my whole life for this.
She’s getting prettier, the older I get.
I wish I could say the same. Her eyes
are an exhale, softer than they used to be,
and her lopsided smile is warmer, tinged
with the pain of waiting but also hope.
If I don’t meet her soon, I’m afraid neither
of us will be able to help the other. I’m sure
this is me being selfish, somehow. I’m sure
I’m doing something wrong.
THE WHITEST FISH ON THE HOOK
It’s a kind of ache, though I’m not
supposed to say. But it’s okay if
you don’t listen. Imagine the dust
doesn’t taste like corpses, the sky
isn’t a traitor to us all, its red fingers
of incandescence trailing the small
of your back like you can’t smell it
on its breath, its hard eyes. Intention.
But maybe it’s not the dust’s fault. It
is what it is, born underfoot from
the corpses of those who tread upon it.
The softest shovel for the most delicate
game. We expect it to know better
but none of us is willing to teach it.
Nobody taught us, we say, except all
those who did. The tongue is the biggest
class traitor since electricity. Touch
it and see it recoil from your blood-
stained hands. Who among us hasn’t
begged the bee to sting us rather than
let us eat its children? What am I
supposed to do in the evenings other
than weep at the lives of those who will
always have more than me? Maybe I’ll
learn a hobby. Big man with a drug habit.
No one thanks desolation for clearing
out the rubes. You’re still not listening,
right? Good. This is the part where I
slip in all my secrets about how to deal
with the ache without angering the shovel,
the dust, the spaghetti-sauce-clogged ears.
It’s a kind of ache, though I’m not
supposed to say. But it’s okay if
you don’t listen. Imagine the dust
doesn’t taste like corpses, the sky
isn’t a traitor to us all, its red fingers
of incandescence trailing the small
of your back like you can’t smell it
on its breath, its hard eyes. Intention.
But maybe it’s not the dust’s fault. It
is what it is, born underfoot from
the corpses of those who tread upon it.
The softest shovel for the most delicate
game. We expect it to know better
but none of us is willing to teach it.
Nobody taught us, we say, except all
those who did. The tongue is the biggest
class traitor since electricity. Touch
it and see it recoil from your blood-
stained hands. Who among us hasn’t
begged the bee to sting us rather than
let us eat its children? What am I
supposed to do in the evenings other
than weep at the lives of those who will
always have more than me? Maybe I’ll
learn a hobby. Big man with a drug habit.
No one thanks desolation for clearing
out the rubes. You’re still not listening,
right? Good. This is the part where I
slip in all my secrets about how to deal
with the ache without angering the shovel,
the dust, the spaghetti-sauce-clogged ears.
THE STONE CARVER HAS DIRTY NAILS
It’s surprising we haven’t fallen into the sky
like the clouds before us, siphoned from
a surplus of forgotten history and hanging
out. They wait in case someone remembers
something someday, which is the primary
purpose of math. To make the perfect mixed
drink requires breaking a few hearts. Our
ancestors died so that we’d have the right
to have dead ancestors. Somebody had to
pay for all those gravestones, which means
wealth doesn’t so much die with us as it’s
passed on to the worms. There were days
when it was enough to stand or sit, teach
new dogs old tricks. We slept an amount
that didn’t make healthcare professionals
shake their heads. Who can say who has
it worse when no one will shut up about
that sandwich they had that time, and why
does my toe hurt? I’m starting to think no
one is going to take me up on this plan to
build a whiskey still in heaven. All those
old halos not doing anyone any good. Fine.
This is why I’m the one who knows how
to have a good time and you’re the one
everyone looks uncomfortable around. I’ll
say it to his face if I have to, but I’ll smile.
It’s surprising we haven’t fallen into the sky
like the clouds before us, siphoned from
a surplus of forgotten history and hanging
out. They wait in case someone remembers
something someday, which is the primary
purpose of math. To make the perfect mixed
drink requires breaking a few hearts. Our
ancestors died so that we’d have the right
to have dead ancestors. Somebody had to
pay for all those gravestones, which means
wealth doesn’t so much die with us as it’s
passed on to the worms. There were days
when it was enough to stand or sit, teach
new dogs old tricks. We slept an amount
that didn’t make healthcare professionals
shake their heads. Who can say who has
it worse when no one will shut up about
that sandwich they had that time, and why
does my toe hurt? I’m starting to think no
one is going to take me up on this plan to
build a whiskey still in heaven. All those
old halos not doing anyone any good. Fine.
This is why I’m the one who knows how
to have a good time and you’re the one
everyone looks uncomfortable around. I’ll
say it to his face if I have to, but I’ll smile.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
I have lived with several Zen masters—all of them cats.
—Eckhart Tolle, The Power of Now
______________________
Today we have a new visitor to the Kitchen, poet CL (Cortney) Bledsoe! Raised on a rice and catfish farm in eastern Arkansas, CL is the author of thirty books, including his newest poetry collection, The Bottle Episode, and his latest novel, The Saviors. Bledsoe co-writes the humor blog, How to Even, with Michael Gushue, at howtoeven.medium.com. Bledsoe lives in northern Virginia with his daughter. Welcome to Medusa’s Kitchen, CL, and don’t be a stranger!
______________________
—Medusa
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