The April 2012 Um-Yangian Read online

  of course,

  but in their proper place -

  the box of pictures taken down

  from the shelf

  needing to be organized,

  the busy clamoring of children

  just outside the door

  ready

  to come

  in.

  Let’s extrapolate

  and say

  it was the act of a harsh

  and vengeful god

  who’s beliefs, coincidentally,

  just happen

  to mirror

  my own

  insecurities

  and perceived

  weaknesses,

  god

  damn you

  god

  I am

  I am so much better now

  that I’ve castigated myself

  this once

  again and have been saved

  and freed

  to punish all those other

  evil doers

  in your name

  mostly

  guilt

  free

  hallelujah

  do I hear a call to action,

  can I get a witness

  amen

  Let’s just say

  I have this run jump kick fall down

  pop up and do it again boy

  in my class

  whose mom is an entomologist at university

  and who regularly posts links

  such as “nature will eat you”

  and her boy wrote a 5,7,5 insect poem that won the 13 and under division

  I hear some crickets

  They soon will be lizard food

  I am sure of that

  pretty cool for a 7 year old who sees our grins

  with a confusion

  as we read not only his poem

  but the judges comments:

  This short poem describes a scene – states a

  fact, really – with unfiltered honesty and precision, almost in

  defiance of the allegory typically demanded by adult literature. Its

  legitimacy, both of the protagonist’s thought process and of the

  crickets’ fate, was refreshing. Though the setting is ambiguous – did

  he buy crickets at the pet store to feed to his brother’s lizard? Is

  he listening to crickets in his yard and projecting on their fate? –

  we are comforted by his assurance that, indeed, these crickets will be

  silenced soon … The poet wades through multiple literary themes, in

  just three short lines: omniscient narrator, tragedy of life and

  death, the fate of the weak in the face of a predator. Despite the

  maturity of his words, though, we were reminded of our childhoods,

  when the world is filled, at once, with surety and imagination.

  We congratulate the poet on penning this extraordinary piece and thank

  him for sharing –

  and let’s just say by chance he chooses

  to become a poet someday

  we can only hope that his profound befuddlement continues

  with our own when we have poetry judges tell us what a precocious 7 year old means,

  might have meant, wanted to say

  but could only imply

  in a lonely 17 syllables

  For years

  he perfected the art

  of drawing his love

  on a grain of rice

  when he finally looked up

  to show her

  she was even

  more beautiful

  than he had

  imagined

  I think Hamlet

  was a total putz

  until I start to question

  the easy answers

  the “I think Hamlet” poem

  most definitely

  an inferior haiku

  so what do you think?

  the love governor – a love/anti-love declaration and rant

  (before we begin -

  you, on the other side of the aisle,

  be sure to apologize profusely for you have offended those

  who believe you don’t have a right to express

  your own opinions)

  all righty

  let today’s session begin-

  transvaginal probes

  government small enough

  to fit into your vagina

  no really,

  if you were raped

  (and by the way just what were you wearing)

  you really wouldn’t mind your government

  probing you again would you, slutty lady

  and why wouldn’t you want to have

  that rapists baby-

  sally from accounting

  we need to know

  why you are on the pill

  every sperm is sacred mr smith

  sorry, we know you’re a man

  but we’re an Equal Opportunity Employer

  so tell us about this viagra

  do you have any hard evidence

  of your medical condition

  and did you hear

  santorum’s sweater vest swears

  it’s only right and natural

  procreation not recreation 2012

  who knew vulcan pon farr

  would have made it into this

  presidential election

  and don’t get me started on minneapolis

  airport restrooms, evangelical boy raping

  taxpayer sponsored marcus bachman

  stylish tough loving hug hug hug

  beat the gay out of you

  oh good lord

  we do hereby declare

  this an era of republican

  lovin for

  they really do want to

  F you over

  and over again

  so be sure

  to cinch your belt

  and don’t turn your back

  on the love governor

  from your very own

  state

  of incredulity -

  beware

  the stylish gay

  barbarians

  at

  the

  gate

  storefront of the heart

  well used concrete

  now swept clean,

  walls and windows

  bare

  of adornments,

  no next sale

  or new item

  signs

  in evidence,

  only some

  vague

  sense of something

  missing

  or perhaps

  a déjà vu

  to the passersby–

  that in their own

  hearts

  just such a space

  is waiting

  no expectation

  no recognition

  just one grand

  opening

  for love

  the 5 year old

 

  accepts it as fact

  that he has to show the 40 year old

  which buttons to press before offering

  the sage advice, “you should have picked

  the AK 47”, before he calmly shoots me

  in the back of the head -

  smear was what we played

  when we were kids,

  one football, 10 guys

  all bigger than you, and a field,

  someone hands you the ball

  and you run, juke,

  avoid the pain of getting

  smeared for as long as you can,

  “when I was growing up”, I always

  want to tell the little 5 year old smart ass,

  but the learning curve is too steep,

  arenas, strategies, the power moves

  of different characters,

  in the end, of course, I always resort

  to what I do best,

  push buttons as fa
st as I can

  before the entire scene

  goes blank

  Don’t you hate it when your animal

  spirit guide turns out to be

  really lame and the group

  leader, who has a white Indian tiger,

  tells you those are the ones

  you can really learn from.

  He keeps going on and on

  about beauty not being in the eye

  but in the symmetry of the eyes,

  at least that’s what he heard

  on the Oprah channel,

  and it doesn’t make any sense to her

  that the bilateral symmetricals

  would ever have a soul mate

  as their right and left halves

  already make a perfectly

  serviceable whole,

  although the radial syms

  might make one great

  soulmate oreo if they could

  ever figure out who’s top

  and who’s bottom,

  and those catholics,

  it would seem to make sense

  that they would embrace

  the asexuals but the Vatican

  made that decree against cloning…

  God, if only this hermaphroditic nematode

  would just split, I think.

  Not possible, it says, we’re both

  radial and bilateral, male

  and female,

  and all androdioecy (wink, wink),

  and besides,

  we’ve just found

  a wonderful new home

  right here

  in your

  digestive

  tract.

  You were always

  black and white,

  wet nose nudging the present

  joy you knew was in my hand

  even when I didn’t,

  the long leash

  of us

  stretching

  thin

  at times

  with the irresistible

  urge

  of a dark underbrush -

  its only breaking,

  the one time

  I called

  and you didn’t look back,

  collie grin fading

  to a distant

  field,

  memories of you

  nipping

  our heels,

  your loyal, uncertain

  stragglers -

  I know it’s hard, girl

  but stay,

  we’ll catch up soon .

  The trouble is …

  always me

  shoes strewn askew

  in the doorway

  of your life

  "are you trying to kill me?!"

  you ask,

  there is no try,

  I quip,

  only do

  and you said

  that

  long ago

  when everyone kept asking

  are you sure you

  want that boy,

  he's nothing but…

  and I remember you saying

  distinctly behind

  your gauzy veil of love

  and hope,

  in front of god and all those witnesses,

  not, I guess or sure, why not

  I distinctly heard you say

  come here,

  bring it on, trouble

  yes

  I do

  no problem

  The man with the long stick

  or 2 short sticks,

  or the long and short bamboo

  swords

  ready and willing

  to hit you in any of your several

  sensitive

  body parts,

  no problem

  the skirt, the ties,

  the armor that needs to

  be perfectly aligned

  to show your proper

  fighting

  spirit,

  no problem

  if they come at you

  with feet and fists

  and throws wanting to

  submit you into

  a leg slapping, tap out

  submission,

  not even a problem

  standing

  in a 20 foot square

  alone

  with a weapon and then with

  empty hands

  to demonstrate to

  the crowd

  your mastery of

  a complex series of movements

  with power, focus, speed

  and precision -

  the long months

  before the competition

  are the problem

  knowing not today, not

  tomorrow, but soon

  you will be tested

  and the oh so glorious release

  from delayed gratification and

  discipline,

  youtube, boobtubed, feet propped up

  waiting

  for the right time,

  just the right moment

  to sweat and train,

  waiting and wondering

  how you’ll do

  when you really

  have to fight

  to survive

  Tree

  Board,

  a plank,

  a tool but more likely

  the handle of a tool,

  a hammer,

  the cannibalistic ax,

  mostly dead

  structural

  support

  for the thin, sappy

  1%,

  its green skin under

  a rough bark

  feeding tendril clones,

  those leafy solar collectors

  reaching for a sun

  to out shade the

  competition

  until

  the inevitable cold snap,

  a downturn too extreme

  threatening to burst those cells

  of perpetual growth-

  the showy fall all gold

  leaving

  the mostly dead

  99%

  on life support

  swaying, dreaming

  in the newly opened

  landscape

  of eternal, brittle

  spring -

  this

  board,

  a plank,

  a tool but more likely

  the handle of a tool,

  a hammer,

  the cannibalistic ax.

  The surprise preemie

  when her seal broke

  early

  only hinted at

  what was to come –

  months in the hospital

  being trained to constantly

  troubleshoot equipment –

  knowing when the black gasket

  wasn’t quite catching

  in the suction machine,

  dropping O2 sats, the fault

  of a probe or a hidden leak

  in the tubing of the

  ventilator,

  dirty filters, trach cuffs, gtube

  ballons to be monitored,

  replaced,

  their little boy, the fighter, the miracle,

  beater of all the doctors odds,

  so fragile

  their hope

  under the weight of the work, the pressure

  of the years to come,

  the little leaks

  of doubt

  always needing to be

  retaped each night

  with their quiet sobs

  under the covers

  while the other watches the

  heart beat

  of the machines

  sitting alone

  in the dark

  Connect with Me Online:

  Facebook: https://facebook.com/SteveWLavigne

  My blog: https://www.unevenstevencu.blogspot.com

  Fork and other poems

  The Unpublishables

  k you for reading books on Archive.