—Visuals Courtesy of Public Domain
ARS POETICA
How do I write thee, let me count the ways.
The sonnet of my marriages, first through third.
The haiku of fatherhood, kids in one breath.
The haibun of my career, 41 years, then done.
The cento of my published papers.
The epic of our family history—Europe to US.
The limerick of my There once was a man from…
The villanelle of my five hobbies.
The ode of my tongue in yet one more lover.
The ghazal of my repeating illness.
The elegy of my too-short life.
How do I write thee, let me count the ways.
The sonnet of my marriages, first through third.
The haiku of fatherhood, kids in one breath.
The haibun of my career, 41 years, then done.
The cento of my published papers.
The epic of our family history—Europe to US.
The limerick of my There once was a man from…
The villanelle of my five hobbies.
The ode of my tongue in yet one more lover.
The ghazal of my repeating illness.
The elegy of my too-short life.
UNDERWATER
I lasted a week at the first foster home.
There I learned to only inhale, because
a completed breath brought the unknown—
days to come were milk poured into water,
cloudy and without taste, I was underwater.
The second home taught me to hold my breath—
the blue backyard plastic pool, where in June,
my bully foster brothers played octopus.
Binding arms and legs while pushing
my head under water.
Number three included parents who never
left the couch or TV—obesity, cockroaches,
and a baby boy with soiled diapers.
No AC and the thick August air
felt like breathing underwater.
Even a crazy Mom beats this, so I returned
home for a year, then at 17 moved out.
Mom left LA for Tecate, Mexico, and died
eight months later, when her car vaulted
an embankment and ended up underwater.
SELF-EXAMINATION
If the recession of 2008 hadn’t maimed so many of us accountants, I wouldn’t have started shoplifting. And though I floated towards homelessness, I clawed my way back up the economic beach, even after watching that ebb tide sweep so many bellowing colleagues out to sea. I don’t mean to lack compassion, no, really, but like they say, “if ya done it, it ain’t bragging.” At that point I realized my salvation lay in the collection plate of petty crime. I mean, wife and kids sayonaraed me long ago, and I’ve been on my own now for one hundred seventy-eight weeks. My initiation into larceny began with basic needs stuffed down my pants—snickers bars, white bread, tins of potted meat, and pony bottles of beer, really just things to tide me over, but then a better plan skipped across my mind like the way a crumpled styrofoam cup skates over an oily canal on a windy day. Reaching back into my old quantitative tool-bag, I began computer-scamming—targeting the idle rich, sweeping their crypto out from under their noses, while posing as a 40ish blonde widow whose nipples peered like shy buttons from a sheer black nightgown. Twelve years later, sometimes I ask myself “do you really know the difference between want and need”, even though these economic curves are the basis of civilized capitalism? Yet neither produces the orgiastic thrill accompanying a successful theft, abdominal muscles contracting involuntarily at the start and relaxing with each exhalation as the crime struts forward. Nonetheless, my new financial security necessitates greater self-examination, literally, more looks in the mirror, to ensure the moral portion of my face doesn’t start decomposing right in front of me—like so many portraits by Francis Bacon. Which brings me to my ultimate question, can one recover from a life of property crime, and is it even necessary? I mean, doesn’t society owe everyone a living, and doesn’t economic inequality justify my takings? I know those are rationalizations, weak as raspberry leaf tea. Still, how much do I really need, and how much do they really not need, and is enough ever enough, especially given the orgasmic nature of illegitimate acquisition?
Some questions really shouldn’t be asked.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
All your questions can be answered, if that is what you want. But once you learn your answers, you can never unlearn them.
—Unknown
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Gary Grossman for today’s intriguing poetry!
Gary Grossman
A reminder that the
RIPE AREA FESTIVAL
takes place in Placerville today,
takes place in Placerville today,
starting at 11am.
For info about this and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
to find the date you want.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
For info about this and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
to find the date you want.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
Aaaaargh...