Mr. Shiny Buttons

Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment

At a recent retreat, I was doing some tracking along the fenceline of my awareness when a starling flew from my right eye. Her captivity may have been my fault, but I also take credit for the energy and gracefulness of her escape. I bid her farewell, envious of her sleek black directionality. If only I could fly.

I often provide loosely defined shelter for such beings but it’s hard to tell if they are benevolent, benign, or malignant.  Do they know this about themselves or are they too hungry to think? A voracious appetite is difficult to manage.

We’re all malicious on occasion, so we snipe at each other, hoping that grousing and prickliness will alleviate our guilt. Some of us are unbroken geodes, but mostly, we’re ordinary stones rolling along, disappointed in what we’ve not become.

“On the other hand,” Mr. Shiny Buttons appears, ready to argue. “There are gongs, massages, herbal tea, and fluffy robes. So many ways to be pampered and deceived. Take heart, you molting pigeon. Take mine, in fact.”

“Your heart?”

“You bet. I have so many. Most are bleeding, but never you mind. Pick one and I’ll patch it up. It’ll be good as new.”

“I can’t”

“You can.”

Mr. Shiny Buttons sweetens his offer. “If properly cared for, repaired hearts will see you past senility.”

“OH!” I gasp as fantasy crashes into reality. “Oh, I know you.”

Mr. Shiny Buttons takes my face in his hands and gazes into my eyes. My Coauthor dashes in and flashes warning hand signals. I dim the light behind my retinas and reflect back nothing. Mr. Shiny Buttons flies into a rage. The scent of artificial lavender issues from his flaring nostrils. I faint.

My Coauthor breaks my fall and slaps me back to consciousness. “Don’t mind old Shiny Buttons. He’s a lonely charlatan. A wimp in royal spandex. He’s made millions peddling longevity. It’s a handy temptation.”

“I hate editing,” I say.

“Belligerence becomes you,” my Coauthor laughs. “But you’re going bald anyway.”

When a Cholla cactus dies, the soft tissue decays, and the lingering bones are riddled with holes. I thought I was done collecting twisted sticks, but as I slipped free from the grip of the labyrinth, I grabbed an intriguing specimen and hurried to the car.  

The skeletal remains are now hidden behind the driver’s seat and I’m planning to leave before anyone discovers what I’ve done.

Smoke

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments

With smoke in our mouths, we eat breakfast in silence. Bloodshot eyes meet bloodshot eyes, we shake the limp hand of an uncertain future, and wonder how to begin this day. There’s no choice. We have to invite Forever along for the ride, but the carriage is crowded with fools.

“Oh you cheery old thing,” Forever teases. “No one likes crotchety in the morning.”

I feign deafness. In the best of times, I’m not a morning person, and these are not the best of times. The eerie glow is rolling nearer and nearer.

The Future throws her head back and starts singing. “Hey, Jude, don’t be afraid. Take a sad song and make it better.”

“Is this necessary?” I moan.

“Trust me,” she nods. “Let it out and let it in. The movement you need is on your shoulder.”

Maybe she’s right. Like Atlas, I shrug.

She laughs. “That’s it, baby. Nice.”

But you can’t shrug this shit away. The litter along the tracks. The loss of common ground. Is there an appropriate response to the mindless squandering of magnificence?

Love could conquer all, but love doesn’t want to. The leitmotif of love is tired of being used for revenge. Stripped thin and braided, love becomes a noose. Embellished and inflated, the golden calf is slaughtered. The rendered lard is a dangerous source of sustenance.

I believe my Coauthor should apologize for these design flaws. This spiral of destruction. But she refuses. “Not sorry, not sorry, not sorry,” she insists.

“You should be,” I mutter. The suffering now, the miseries coming, cities choking on themselves. I don’t want to be complicit, but I know I am.

Suddenly, we’re in New Orleans. A city built on denial and dikes, levees and levity. “Let me help you with that clunky baggage,” the Bellboy offers. He grabs the straps of my black mood and dances up the stairs of the Monteleone. Forever is close behind, still belting out that damn song.

“The minute you let her into your heart, then you can start to make it better. Better. Better. Better.” Forever’s pitch climbs to near hysteria. Arms raised, all creation sways as one. “Na, na, na, na, na-na-na-na. Na-na-na-na. Hey, Jude.”

“Let who into my heart?” I shout. “Or what?”

Three Divine Fire Chiefs pull me aside. “What if we’re the Starters and Swallowers of Fire,” they posit with roguish smiles. “What if we’re the Ride and the Littered Trail?”

I glare, unwilling to be privy to these dialectical mysteries.

Forever laughs. “Stop griping and glooming, little mortal. Just let it out. And let it in. And thus it will begin. Again.”

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Chicken Little: A Performance Piece

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments 

            Chicken Little could have scratched for worms, hatched chicks, and lived out her life unperturbed. Instead, an acorn fell and hit her on the head, and she determined the sky was falling. She grabbed her purse and ran to tell the king.
            Other hapless poultry joined the histrionic procession. A wily fox lured them aside, took the contents of their wallets, and ate them.
            The fox returned to the castle. “I love conspiracy theories,” he exclaimed as he posed for pictures of himself playing golf.
            “I’m a fantastic poser,” he said to the photographers. “If these portraits don’t measure up, you’ll be my next meal.”

The Grapes of Wrath

Acorns and apples, peaches and pears. They fall.
What we make of this is not all there is to the story.
Fermentation is an option.

The flesh is willing, but timing is everything.
The bearing of fruit, oh the delicate dance
of chance and bees and early frost. So much is lost
along the Way, trampled under foot
or eaten by gleaners, birds, and bruins,

but seeds have the final word. 
What appears to be in ruins is fodder for the sprouting.

Of course, there must be rain.

There must be rain. And it must fall
hither and yon, far beyond 
what you’ve ever considered
as anything you could love.
 
We’ve laden the sky with satellites, 
weaponry, smoke, and terror.
These things will fall back down 
to bruise our bodies, scorch our lungs, 
and worry us to death.
 
We’ve misplaced our feeble hope. 
It dwells in the eternal churning 
of very troubled waters.

            Using passive sonar, it’s possible to estimate the depths of these waters. Humans arrived without fanfare or legs, and newborns are mostly water. 
            It’s tempting but futile to sacrifice your tongue to walk on land searching for love. Tempting but fruitless to kill the troubling albatross. Ask the Mermaid or Mariner. The penalties are steep.
            “Water, water, everywhere. But not a drop to drink,” laughs the Plagiarist. “I’ve placed valves in your heart, so the blood only flows one way, thus saving you from the ragged passions of retrograding and regret.”
            “And I’ve created flumes to route it back.” I reply. “This time, the sky is falling.”
            “There’s no such thing as sky,” the Coauthor laughs. I notice the gleaming teeth.
            “You’re going to eat me, aren’t you?”

            As the Coauthor takes my hand, the ice in my veins begins to melt, and we wade through the slush toward the table, set for two.  I realize that we are each other’s meal.
            “Shall I order wine?” the Coauthor asks.
            “Sure,” I nod.” The intensity of a Petite Sirah sounds good.”

Systems Charge

Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment

Many thanks to the bison I ate last night. I hope it had a good life and a decent death. I needed the protein. Or at least I thought I did.

The killings I am party to usually have a rationale: I killed that rooster in self-defense. The bison and the housefly, the rooster and the rattlesnake, these I can explain.

As I reset the mousetrap near the firewood on our porch, the Source of Life appears clad in a wife-beater T-shirt, spewing putrid breath.

“Catch another one?” He picks his teeth with a splinter and leers at me.

The odors and images of decomposition rise in waves and begin to permeate everything I love. I rush to close the doors and windows, draw the shades, and mist the air with peppermint. The Source of Life orbits our shared reality and seeps through hairline cracks in a haze of moldy blue. She’s happy.

“I could use some help,” I tell It. Her. Him. They. And I include myself in case there’s some part of me unaware of the long line of lorries filled with insufferable demands and questionable aspirations stalled along the congested routes of my timeline.

“What’s up?” The Source of Life often exudes a certain nonchalance. Like a shill mining for clicks. Disarming on the surface. Deadly underneath.

“Um, well. I have too many shoes,” I stammer. “But none of them are quite right. And I’m not sure if I like sticks anymore. And I can’t seem to keep my fingernails clean or properly shaped.” (I come from a long line of proud fingernail tenders, so this failure is especially humiliating.)

“Diving deep, I see,” The Source of Life chuckles. “Got anything else?”

“I don’t even understand the Systems Charge on our power bill,” I wail in frustration.

The Source says nothing.

“You want a deeper dive?” I continue. “Fine.”

So many failings come to mind.. “How about we tackle pride, anger, envy, greed, and revenge?” I snap. Then add, “Or fear.” I look for an exit.

“And there we go.” The Source has morphed into a formidable Hawaiian woman. She blocks my retreat. The banquet table is set with fine wine, strawberries, grapes, apples, cheese, Portuguese sweet bread, and an array of manicure accoutrements, including a basin of scented holy water for the soaking and softening of cuticle and callous.

“Aloha,” I mutter, glancing sideways.

The mercy in her eyes turns my bravado to putty; I’m stricken and ashamed. My body revealed. My hands given over.

“There we go, beloved,” she repeats as she guides my aching fingers into the iridescent liquid. “There we go.”

Ancestry

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments 

My disposition this morning: 

             No matter how stout or frail, uphill or down, prophet or clown,
             the final hour will come.

             We’ll each be defined by what’s left behind so be kind, damn it.
             Be kind.

Maybe I should wait for a better mood to write, but it’s getting hot. I don’t hold out much hope for anything but modest hydration and loose-fitting clothes.

Desquamation is the shedding of the outermost layer of the epidermis. Living people do it all the time. It is natural. Essential. And the dust left behind varies in hue depending on race. 

David Sedaris wrote that he wants to crawl into crisp, clean sheets in his hotel bed every night. Does he know anything about the cost of hot water and the toxicity of chlorine? Does he fear his own white detritus?

We litter our days with legalized greed, leaving dirty dishes, hurt feelings, tattered aspirations, and false humility to churn around us as we drift downstream, laden with envy and small regrets.
   
One time, after climbing a famous butte in our region, our vegetarian friend was given a T-bone steak by accident. He left nothing behind but the gnawed bone which he took home to remember. For one sparkling moment, his plate was clean.

Our contradictions enlighten us. It is a blessed thing to circle back and forgive or be forgiven. Even more blessed to yell pshaw, slap our knees, and gleefully guffaw at the absurdity of trying to eradicate weeds.

Thus sayeth the Many: You cannot look away from a spiraling plane nor stop the impending crash. You cannot even slow the shedding of your lovely skin. 

Thus sayeth me: I know. But do you promise you’ll have the final Word? 

Thus sayeth Them: Yes.

Thus admidith me: Sorry, but I don’t believe you.

Thus reassureth Them: You’re not alone.

In the crowded photo booths of life, the ancestors show up as shadows, inclined toward simple guidance. Be honest. Be worthy, generous, and wise. But most of all, be kind, damn it. Be kind. 


*******


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Plug-in Hybrid

Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment 

We’re considering buying a bright red car from Wisconsin. 
This would necessitate a change in driving habits, 
but it might be worth the effort to invest in transportation 
that will run at least partially on energy collected from the sun. 

Yes, there are toxic batteries involved, 
and our miniscule efforts won’t save the planet,
but if generations to come somehow survive, we hope
to make things a little easier for them. 

The Ever-Convulsing Creator gags her way into my consciousness. 
She’s on all fours, throwing up again. 
I sling the new car fantasies aside, drop to my knees, 
and hold a wet cloth to her forehead.

We sit on the banks of the diminishing river. 
She wipes holy vomit from her lips and chin 
and lays back on the bank, exhausted.

“You’ve got to stop drinking that poison,” I admonish, my voice judgy. 
The demons of the waterways nod.
She holds up her hand, a signal that this is not the time to scold. 

The Creative Force of the Universe is suffering severe abuse, 
cheap shots to the kidneys and liver, veins diverted to canals, 
and the forced ingestion of chemical concoctions 
that crack the bones of the Mother 
so we can suck out the last bits of marrow.

Her immune systems are so weakened that she falls prey to everything 
from Ebola to avian flu. She willingly dies a thousand deaths 
every second of every day. 

“Maybe it’s time for you to move on,” I mumble 
with fear and trembling. Abandonment is beyond imagining. 
Even the demons shudder. But it’s neither fair nor kind 
to expect the Artist to hang around 
and watch her creation trashed.

I’ve touched a nerve. Her head snaps up, eyes flash, 
and she becomes darkly multitudinous. They take over the dance floor, 
stiletto heels clacking, red capes snapping. 

“We don’t move on,” they shout in unison. “We don’t give up. 
We amend, upend, transform and rest. 
In the heat of summer, mimosas. 
In the dead of winter, hot toddies. 
Boundaries soften and in those infinite shades of twilight 
we reinvent the way.”

I shake my head, skeptical. “We might be getting a red car,”
I say with false bravado. “I could give you a lift.”

“Thanks,” they chuckle, a thousand eyes twinkling, 
a billion planets spinning. “But we have our own ride.”

“Okay, then. How about I hop in with you?”

A lot of nudging and snickering ensues. 
I overhear one saying to another, “Doesn’t she realize 
she’s been in the back seat all this time?” 

I blush and buckle up. The road ahead looks rugged.


*******



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Upon Awakening

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments 

Hey. Is that you?
Yes.
It’s so dark it’s hard to tell.
I know. I don’t expect you to be sure.

Could you wave your cosmic baton and let there be light?
I could. But it wouldn’t help.
Why? Because then you’d hide?
No. Darkness and light are the same to me.

I don’t find that reassuring.
You’re not alone. Most don’t.
We’re on the same team, right?
No. We’re not.

But you adore swamis, crones, and mavens, don’t you?
In a manner of speaking, yes, I do.
You have a funny way of showing it.
True. And the stars agree. They’re laughing.

Sorry. I can’t hear the stars.
You can’t hear the stars. You can’t see in the dark.
It’s rude to make fun of my deficits.
That’s me. A rude, crude, dude. 

Are you making a point?
Yes.
I don’t get it.
Relax.

When I relax, I’m afraid.
Now we’re getting somewhere.
Nowhere I want to go.
That’s the point. Take my elbow.

I’d rather eat a snake.
No you wouldn’t.
All right. I wouldn’t.
Would you like some pizza or a protein bar?

Not really. Is that all you got?
For now, that’s about it.
Okay, then. I’m going to tally up all my dead friends.
Well, if you were wise, you’d tally the living ones.

I’m not into that positivity claptrap.
Clearly. But I must demur. Being positive can help.
Do you think the F-word is appropriate for poetry?
Absolutely. Better than puppy or paradise or peony.

Are there any right choices?
You make me a little crazy. You KNOW the answer.
But why is BEING KIND so hard?
I have no idea. In the original plan, it was easy.

I doubt you ever had a plan.
Well, you’re wrong. I have plans. So many plans.
So do I. But it’s futile to make plans, isn’t it?
Not at all. Plans are the way blood circulates.

I don’t recognize myself in this current form.
You have no actual form.
But then how will I ever know myself?
Same way you know it’s me. Leave the lights off.

*******

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To Be a Bird

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments 

Reassurance is hard to come by these day, but immediate dense caloric intake helps me cope with the onslaught of morning news. Not long ago, breakfast included a half bottle of dark beer, but it isn’t worth the hassle anymore. The untouched supply of porter in the pantry speaks to the acute nature of the troubles. A swig or two of leftover wine is about all I can handle.

So tell me, kind companion, how is it with you in the morning?

I’m trying to accept my fate, but I cannot wait to be a bird. I’d like to be a magpie, but a crow or raven would be fine. Sparrow. Starling. Even an Arctic Tern. I just need wings and an internal map that reveals the direction of each season. Also, if I fall from the nest, the Big Hand will be there to scoop me back up.

Some may assume I’m referring to the hand of their God, but I’m not. The merest touch of those exclusive Gods leaves a dangerous odor that risks rejection from the protective flock. Like anyone who makes meaning from ancient texts, I twist scripture, hoping to curry favor with the Source and thus ensure an orderly eternity.

Tell me, beloved, how is it you curry such favor?

The Good Graces have gone missing. There are grave implications for a universe careening out of control. Harsh, lonely, and forever. No maestro. No emcee. Therefore, I’m learning to speak the languages of stone and helpless infants. Of microbes in the soil. Of fatted calves, long thin beans, and garlic.

Tell me, friend, what languages are you working on?

In my native tongue, I ask repeatedly about the saving of us all, but things remain inconclusive. We’re not easily preserved. We’re shaped like eggs with shells that break from within and without.

We drape ourselves in colorful flags to signal unity: Queer, straight, soldier, snake. The Jolly Roger, Old Glory, and the Union Jack. Loyalties rigidify. Edges fray.

Tell me, cherished one, is belonging worth the cost?

Today I will partake as I’m able and drape myself in whatever comes. It may be the blessing of purple linen or the banality of polyester. Most likely, it will be the wrong size. I’ll roll up the sleeves, pin the waist, and tighten the buckles. Or rip a seam to ease the pressure of something too small.

Someday, I’ll need nothing but feathers. With bones hollowed and wings unfurled, I’ll rise up, gracefully negotiating the downdrafts. This is what I’m awaiting.

So tell me, my dearest, what is it you’re awaiting? And what is it you believe?

Solstice

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

There are vast deposits of nature’s oddities, discarded treasure, and shiny objects tucked away in the nooks and crannies of my life. All that regenerative potential should bring joy. A sense of purpose. Right? Instead, I am bound and gagged by my own good fortune.

I’ve tried to hack free from the bonds of salvation and travel lighter, but when I manage to get rid of something, seven or eight similar items appear and repopulate the collection. Or, within days, I realize I threw away the one thing I truly needed. And this includes certain types of people.

Perhaps the solution is to want nothing and need nothing. Turn my back on all those possibilities. Grin at the fool in the broken mirror but then move on. Let shards be shards. Empty the closets, the barns, the basement, the attic. Empty the soul.

But how?

Bonfires come to mind, but there are restrictions due to the drought. And the smoke and thermal waves rising from burn piles and bombings are disturbing. The trapped gasses of humanity are slowly broiling the surface of the earth. I hate adding to the roiling disaster.

I’ve tried giving things away, but bequeathing is fraught with misunderstandings or rejection. And attempting to add organic matter, stir, and compost a lifetime supply of wheel barrels and hollow-core doors would be irreversibly toxic in its own way.

“What about burying your troubles in a deep pit?” whispers the Excavator. “Out of sight, out of mind.”

“Have digger, will dig, eh?” I elbow Infinity.

The Excavator flexes, and even though I still possess a modicum of faith, I back away.

“Go restore a riverbank or something, Ex. I’m NOT going to bury everything.”

“Not everything, darling. Be selective. Choose a few token articles or worthless people, toss them in the pit, and I’ll cover them up. You can provide my alibi.”

“I have neither the time nor the strength for that kind of discernment. Have you seen that lumber pile with all those rusty nails screaming tetanus? Even if there were seven of me, we’d have no chance. And I can’t provide your alibi. I’m mortal.”  

The Excavator lifts its Golden Bucket, and suddenly, there are endless versions of me, doubled over in the garden pulling weeds. The Jester begins a ridiculous rap.

The weeds keep winning, 
but the party’s beginning. 
Multiplicities prancing.
The Longest Light dancing. 
The Amazements are serving cocktails.

This too shall pass
So don’t sit on your ass…

Dark clouds burst into laughter above the entire assemblage. The drought has ended. And a recently dug hole the size of Texas is filling with runoff from the sweet, sweet rain.

The Enormity of Managing Kefir

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments 

Gods are so innocent they wait for praise like children.
Praising, dear one, let’s be generous with praise.
Nothing is ours. We set our hands lightly on the necks
Of unbroken flowers….
                                --From Elegy by Ranier Maria Rilke
Here on the homestead, we make granola 
and resent each other when the supply dwindles. 
Making granola isn’t difficult, but once done, 
it seems like it should last indefinitely.

And don’t get me started on the challenges of kefir. 
There are living organisms involved. 
It’s nearly as demanding as sour dough or the chickens.

As the years roll by, we tell ourselves we deserve a break. 
We want to engage in leisurely travel, 
create praiseworthy works of assemblage art, 
write profound treatises on profound subjects, 
and land a bestseller. But time dwindles.

We rush home from our trip to the dump 
to feed the kefir grains or cover the squash seedlings 
due to the impending frost. 
Our fantasies rarely align 
with the mundane demands of existence. 
And who praises the mundane?

“How do you do it,” I ask Creative Force, my voice a little testy.
“Do what?”
“Let go. Remain background to the false foreground.”

Creative Force dissipates into a remarkably long exhale.
“Come back,” I beg.
A barbed silence ensues. Edgy. Meaningless. 

Sometimes, I imagine communal life 
as a way to lighten the load. Many hands. 
Light work.  In these sepia tinted dreams, 
I’m the Godmother of a magnanimous mafia 
dedicated to extorting the good in humanity, 
offering protection from existential angst 
for a modest fee. There are flaws in this vision.

Sometimes, we invite neighbors over 
to eat rhubarb banana bread and join us 
in our search for the essence of life. 
But they rarely come.

Perhaps it’s the wording of our invitations. 
Rhubarb is not a crowd fav. And they have pets. 
Children. Unfinished businesses. 
Or ailments that impede movement 
or prohibit such topics of conversation.

Creative Force has reconfigured themselves 
into a small flock of sheep grazing by the river. 
I approach with caution.
“Are you here to eat grass?” I ask.
 
Our pasture is overgrown; the grazing would be a gift.
I yearn to gaze into those liquid brown eyes 
and offer unconditional adoration, 
but they don’t even lift their heads. 

A sudden, wrong-headed hunger overtakes me. 
Humans cannot convert grass to protein. 
To quell this rising panic, I begin the long trek home, 
aware that I may perish along the way. I accept that. 
But I am also aware that there’s a chance I’ll make it 
and there’ll be a little granola left. 

For now.
For which I shall offer praise and thanksgiving.




*************

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