An older poem

Posting this older poem in response to a political conversation I had last night with Sean and Kathy (the somewhat subject of the poem--the blessing of the Republican Party by the the evangelical church--came up). One of my few forays into all-out satire; this belongs to the period as the older poem about Stephen's martyrdom that I posted a couple of months ago, and my apologies on that occasion for some of the juvenile formal elements hold true here, too. You should imagine me reading this with a thick, almost charicatured West Texas Bible church preacher accent. Because that's how I read it.


A FEW THOUGHTS ON OR BY THE CHRISTIAN COALITION

in god we trust--
except, that is, in questions of
government. he's a big guy, after
all, and doesn't fit so
well into such mortal institutions as
congress, the supreme court, or the
constitution

sides, he's busy these days,
gittin all saddled up
fer the second comin,
n BOY is he comin.
he's acomin down into all of this
he's comin down, n brother is he pissed--
he's gawn be president,
he's gawn kick some ass n
take a few names, n we figgered
we'd give'm a head start on the list.

cause i'm a soldier in the army of the lord,
i said i'm a soldier in the army of the lord,
and may i say i'm proud to be
the smoking gun in the right hand of the lord,
who (in keeping with tradition)
was framed for our sins. we
pulled the trigger, but
he got nailed for it.

so be of good heart! for
we shall overcome, we shall become
the world. we got us a whole host
of earthly angels, spirit-filled, sanctified
generals of the gospel. they gawn
march us right across the jordan
without gettin our feet wet.
they gawn lead us round washington,
screamin songs and hummin hymns,
for seven days and seven nights

and brother, the walls are gonna fall

we're gawn make everything alright
we're gawn get back to basics
we're gawn open every school day with prayer, praise, and an altar call
we're gawn burn the blasphemous likes of james joyce and billy burroughs
build a bonfire with a stack of stanley kubrick films
throw in hugh hefner, norma mccorvey, and the body of john lennon
and on this fire we're gawn make some bricks, and bake them thoroughly
you gotta have bricks to build a house for god,
and we're gawn build ourselves a church, the biggest goddamned
church you ever seen, reaching even unto the heavens
know what i mean?
can i get an amen?
am i talkin your language?

this is our destination, brothers and sisters,
but to get there we must be strong,
for in our strength his weakness is revealed,
or words to that effect.
we gotta be firm: we can
tolerate no dissension, for
narrow is the road that leads to
somewhere, i don't know, forever
is so far off, and in the meantime
the road to the white house
is paved with good intentions

and jesus is crying
jesus is crying
jesus is crying

but don't worry:
we'll cheer him up

# posted by Daniel at 11:11 AM.

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All the news you can use

ITEM! Fall semester begins tomorrow. I'm taking twelve hours--a Spanish class, Philosophy of Law, Ethics, and American Philosophy (which is basically a class on Pragmatism, since that's the only really original contribution Americans have made to world philosophy).

ITEM! I've been working 45 hours a week at the Treatment Center on the overnight shift, which has pretty much destroyed all contact with human society (unless by "human society" you mean "juvenile sex offenders"). I've been pretty generally depressed and bummed, not knowing why, until getting back from a recent trip to Santa Fe with Sean and the boys, when I realized that what I was missing was human interaction. I guess even introverts need love, too. We just want you to go away afterward. But I digress--I just got back from the bus barn of San Marcos Consolidated Independent School District, for whom I used to drive buses, and they're quite enthusiastic about taking me back on as a substitute driver (as opposed to a driver with a regular route, which I can't be since I can't drive on Monday and Wednesday afternoons). Being a sub driver would mean no benefits, but I'd be making the same hourly I used to, and I wouldn't have to stay awake all night. Or work 45 hours a week.

ITEM! I also just got back from buying my books from the semester. As I was leaving the bookstore there was someone handing out College Care Packets (small thing of various college "essentials"), attractively packaged in a SpongeBob Squarepants box. And, what you ask, did it contain? One package of Ramen noodles, one tube of toothpaste, a book of pizza coupons, a small container of Nyquil, a subscription form for discounted magazines, and a condom. They should have called it the College Cliche Pack.


aaaaaaaand that's all I got. Oh yeah--Jonathan, you might be interested in these pictures of a certain someone getting ravaged by a crocodile (scroll halfway down the page--I couldn't get a link directly to the image). There's another one of me getting my eyes pecked out by crows, but you'll have to look around for it.

# posted by Daniel at 11:18 AM.

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Poem

I've been working on this one for a few months. It's a little different than a lot of what I've been writing lately; let me know what you think. I'm particularly interested in criticism re: the last seven or eight lines, which I'm still uncertain about. Is it corny? Vague? Not fitting with the rest of the poem? Just give me some feedback--likes and dislikes, general impressions. That sort of thing. You know the drill.



MOCCASINS

What you ought to do is hold still
and not try to explain while I climb
across the table, taking care
not to spill the coffee, sugar,
glass of water and hook my hands
on your jaw and pull myself
over your picket fence teeth and up
into your mouth. Don't say anything--
this is the tricky part. Don't even sneeze
while I wriggle in and down your throat, then slide
my hands through the sleeves of your arms
and wrestle feet through your pant legs. Be still
while I take a moment to locate myself
in your foreign, unexpected space.

And now that I wear your body like my own
body, repeat what you just said,
what I didn't understand,
what you had to say three times already
and nearly lost my temper--only now
when you rest your weight against the table I feel it
pressing into my arms, and the odd, seashell shape of your mouth
moving as if it were my mouth, and the voice
drifting up through your chimney throat
is like smoke rising from my own brush fire soul.
And when you say it again, leaning forward
for emphasis, tapping
a fork against the tabletop--only you drop it,
and I feel it slip from your fingers,
and looking up I'm astonished at myself,
ever the fortress of irony, in position across the table,
only now I see my face change, begin to nod,
to understand,
and the walls fall outwards.

(2004)

# posted by Daniel at 9:22 AM.

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Poem, not by me

A poem by Andrew Hudgins, oddly appropriate to the completion of the Seamonster story.

The Lake Sings to the Sleepless Child

# posted by Daniel at 9:48 AM.

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Poem

You know how the asteroid belt is supposedly the leftover bits of the material that went into making the other planets? That sort of thing happens a lot in poetry. This poem grew out of a part of the original Paschal Song that got cut even before the first draft was finished. I've been trying to make it work for awhile.



PASCHAL SONG #2

Then Simon Peter came, following him, and went into the tomb; and he saw the linen cloths lying there, and the handkerchief that had been around His head, not lying with the linen cloths, but folded together in a place by itself.
John 20:6-7

It's the season for any kind of weather. Last night lightning
played the skies around the city but the backlit clouds
never gave up the rain. I watched it from the porch, a beer
sweating into my palm, and fell asleep after midnight. A bomb went off,
but no one here felt it through the earth. People died, though:
the radio was full of them while I dressed for church,
blinking at the news as at the memory of an unpleasant dream.
It's the season when little green worms shit ropes to lower themselves
from trees in the yard--they drape you from the front door to the driveway.
I try to brush them off but never get them all. They trail after me
like streamers all day long. It's the season when we staple Christ
to the world's tree, and light like a boot kicks in the door of the tomb,
and he lifts his shirt so Thomas--my favorite--can press his fingers
where the spear went in. Everyone knows it.

But this season it's the small scrap of the story, early Easter
morning. You fold the handkerchief they tied around your head
and lay it on the stone. It's been the mandala of my swerving
devotions, the photograph worn to scraps with looking, folding,
unfolding. The stone lies startled to an angle
beside the tomb. The Mediterranean light shoulders through
the open door and falls across your shoulders, back
to the world for one last minute. You kneel, my Lord,
folding laundry in the dirt, matching corners of the rags
whose every stain remembers your dying--you shake them out,
fold them nonetheless even as the angels urge you finish--
They're coming, they're coming! They'll see you!
But you never hurry. Everything that's touched you
will be folded. You lay the rags where the Gospels find them.
Everything that's touched you will be made right.

# posted by Daniel at 4:30 AM.

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