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.
*******
For more uplifting, cheery poems and conversations just like this one, you can order our book from the YOU KNOW WHO (AMZN), and for a mere $13.99 you can torment your soul every day. Xoxoxo
To read a poem aloud has risks. Here are some safety tips:
• Clear your throat and mind. • Let the syllables control the wheel. • Soften your gaze. • Do not pretend to understand (but maybe you will).
And now, for a chance to practice. Enunciate. Be brave.
Visitations
When God comes by, there’ll be no glare. The Mighty Incognito travels light and hides inside your cravings drinking vodka, laughing like a fool just out of sight.
When the weather seems to get the upper hand, dig into the compost of the past and listen to the microbes singing love songs. knowing all that stuff and nonsense doesn’t last.
The clash and clang and riptides are deceptive. Our young ones watch as melodies decay. This etude has no ending or beginning, but underneath the notes, you’ll find the way.
So get thee to the shadows, tiny dancer. Survival should no longer be thy goal. Smile while all the moments turn to ashes.. Then faint upon thy couch and rest thy soul.
(Important facts about composting: 1) The mesophilic, or moderate-temperature phase, lasts a day or two; 2) The thermophilic, or high-temperature phase, lasts from a few days to many weeks; and 3) The maturation, or cooling phase, lasts for several months.)
Questions to consider:
• Is compost evidence of life after death? • Is nonsense sacred? Profane? Nourishing? • How often do you check your weather app? • Should God make appointments or just stop by? • Do you even have a couch? If so, give thanks.
* * * *
For more uplifting, cheery poems and conversations just like this one, you can order our book from the YOU KNOW WHO (AMZN), and for a mere $13.99 you can torment your soul every day. Xoxoxo
Because our species is prone to greed, fear, and cruelty, most of us are vaguely aware that we need continuous course correction or maybe even redemption. This is dangerous. It spawns lies and idols, tall tales and archaic formulas. Sometimes, it engenders groveling and the beating of one’s chest.
This false humility is not helpful. Ironically, genuine humility is exactly what The Saving requires of you.
The Saving is amorphous. A process. An ache beyond our intellect but not beyond our collective intuitions. It is animated kindness, the substitute for sacrifices we should make ourselves. The Saving is a band of travelers singing songs, slinging seeds, only some of which will grow to shade the paths we cannot help but take.
The Saving is a river and an ocean. A hunger for justice. Merciful shelter when all hell has broken loose. The Saving is permission to seek peace. To rest assured. To regroup and begin again.
The Saving springs from the mind of Zeus, the whirling of dervishes, the Splintered Singularity of universal grace. It has neither creed nor crescendo. The Saving is the Whole. The Many. The Few. The One. The Saving has beautiful feet. Washed. Sandled. Ready.
The Saving is the Women who forever watch the essence of their offspring wafting upward in the futile heat of war. The Saving has no weapons. None.
When you call upon The Saving, it is an evolutionary plea, a mantra to the Truth, chanting that centers the chaos of the night. The Saving unsettles and then sometimes soothes the soul.
The Saving is a classroom in a tent, a nursing home short-staffed, new wine, old beer, anticipation so eternal we often call it hope. The Saving is a name for all messiahs, a congregated force, a twinkle in the Eye.
Your beliefs provide no wavers nor do they justify your judgments. The bylaws have been simplified. Be honest and courageous. Let your heart be lifted, neither troubled nor afraid.
The Saving has collected so much dross along the Way that a great and awful swelling has begun. The skin across the belly of the earth has purple stretch marks. The Saving breaks the membranes and drinks the holy waters in our stead.
The Saving is the laughter of the martyrs, the scapegoat of the wayward, the surrender. The Saving whispers those sweet nothings everyone longs to hear. Most days, this brings some comfort.
But when you weaken and speak in the tongues of the entitled or the petty, The Saving snaps your head off and replaces it with petunias and geraniums until you forgive your lesser selves and start the day anew.
The singular life you’re living is an astonishment. A statistical improbability. And yet, here you are, doing what you’re doing. People are goose-stepping in a military parade in North Korea, singing alto in a choir in Kenya, or smoking weed in a field of daisies in the Alps. Someone is starving in Cuba, bombed out in Lebanon, or issuing psychotic threats designed to make the ultimate deal.
“We like to think of y’all as one seething miracle,” God chuckles.
“And I like to think of this hot mess as a rotting pile of shit. With the occasional shiny moment.”
This cracks God up. After they catch their breath, they tell me, “It’ll all come out in the wash.”
“What wash?” I ask.
“The Wash of the Ages. The Blazing Baptism of Infinity.”
“No one likes the sound of that,” I say.
“Listen anyway. And look directly at the fire.”
This particular moment, shiny or otherwise, is yours. It, too, is an astonishment. Lift your eyes from these words slowly. Stare straight into the void that is your future. Settle. Don’t cry. Don’t scream. Don’t laugh. Do nothing but warm your hands and be honest.
“I’ve got four horsemen fleeing, three gods in waiting, two doves turned away at an artificial border, and one faithful moon reflecting every bloody thing.” God shrugs as if this is all passé.
“You’re being difficult this morning,” I complain. “Where’s your downy underbelly?”
“You’re my downy underbelly.”
“No. I want to be greatness and glory,” I protest. “Not soft.”
“Everyone softens over time. But you must also be steady and brave.”
You’ve been sworn to a secrecy so wild and profound that it is beyond memory. Laced with magic, ladened with love. You once were and will again be a swirl of sparks and pigments. But for now, nothing has ever mattered so much as justice and mercy. Welcome your longings and ignorance, your power and fear. Tend to the prairies and the oceans. Temper your greed with compassion. Admire the mountains and the sun. Circle the moon. And wear your courage like armor over your tender heart.
*** *** ***
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It’s common to look for loopholes in the various holy writings we use to guide and judge ourselves and each other. This is because even when showing up and doing exactly what Allah seems to want, or covering ourselves in the blood of the lamb, or sacrificing fatted calves, or piercing our chests with bones, dancing until we pass out, deep inside, we know we’re imperfect beings. Maybe we have enough faith to curry the favor of the Divine or avoid eternal damnation. Maybe not. It’s terrifying.
“Well, that’s ridiculous,” the Coauthor says. “And I have to admit; I get a little tired of the drama.” “Well, I have to admit I get a little tired of you,” I counter. “I know,” the Coauthor says. We sip beer.
Somehow, my phone has dialed itself and there’s a voice saying hello, hello from my pocket. I dig out the renegade device and stare at the unfamiliar name on the screen. It’s tempting to end the call, but I answer. Turns out it’s a handyman I hired once, years ago. We have a nice little chat. He is most understanding. I will never see him again. My phone acts like it might redial as I try to update my contacts. My fingers are cold and imprecise. I give up.
When I think about my reassuring accumulations of art supplies, rocks, dark chocolate, and certain friends, the world seems kind and full of potential. In this transitory euphoria, I make promises, entertain ambitious visions, and fantasize greatness. But in reality, the candy drawer is depleted, the wind has picked up, and another day is slipping by in the wrong direction.
“I’m not good at graceful exits,” I admit to the slightly inebriated Coauthor. “But I’m working on it. And sometimes, I manage to show up.” “I appreciate that,” the Coauthor says. “I bet you do,” I nod, thinking about the showing up required of mothers, soldiers, and misunderstood creators. “I know you show up, though some of your disguises are in very bad taste, and you often drink more than your share of the beer.” The Coauthor shrugs. “Maybe I need a little rehab.” I smile. “Maybe. But even at your worst, you never miss an exit, graceful or otherwise.” “I’m glad you realize that,” the Coauthor says. “But is that faith?” I ask. “Close enough,” the Coauthor nods. “Relax.”
Arms folded, feet up, I rest in uneasy abundance, awaiting internal directions or a sign from the sparrows, feasting as the seasons allow. The precarity and brevity of their lives seem of no concern to them this morning.
Last night I went looking for the birds scratching in the walls, only to dream the noise was water waiting to freeze. Birds are ingenious and nest where they aren’t welcome, causing moral and primal unease.
But untamed water is the mind of God, and there’s no way to contend with that.
You can shore up your defenses, proclaim your innocence, and pretend the meal is ready. But the fine mist that shrouds the falls keeps everyone unsteady.
Get back in bed, I tell myself, hoping this is good advice. There are birds in the walls, and their body heat is melting the December ice.
Three Fearsome Poets have taken wing. This explains the abrasions on your inner being. Those who have been granted souls must guard and keep them down and low. Otherwise, they’ll be murdered or enslaved.
As it should be, scream the Entitled and Depraved. In geologic time, those vastly rich will drown just below the surface of the calm.
The eggs will hatch, regardless. The young already know. I float naked over shoals of sediment and fish, gradually letting go. I only wish for covering and I see that it’s begun to snow.
You know that little desk you used for envelopes and business cards? Well, I’ve dragged it to a new place and painted the top. It’s got a paisley planetary look now. I doubt you’d like it, but you’d be impressed with my system for moving heavy things. I reduce the friction and lean in.
And speaking of friction, I need to tell you about what’s happening with the beloveds.
Remember our trip to Paris decades ago? The crowds were so vibrant and diverse you were floored. We people-watched for hours.
In the evening, you stood transfixed as hundreds of nuns rehearsed inside a backlit cathedral on a hill overlooking the city. The harmonies were ethereal.
“Never in my life did I imagine I’d hear something like that,” you said, wiping tears. “I just can’t fathom all this.”
Mom, listen. The harmonies have been stripped of complexity. Diced and dichotomized. Those colorful people are too frightened to sing, and something hateful has hardened what used to be warm hearts. No one can fathom it. We’re all watching our backs, ready to be stabbed or taken away.
You claimed you could handle yourself around guns, but I know that at least one bullet blew up in your face. Therefore, I’ll try anything but deadly force. We’ve collected some baseball bats, and the pantry is full. Mostly, we play ball and eat chips and dried mango, but we’re pretending to be ready.
No one is actually ready.
The firewood is lasting pretty well, but the temperature keeps dropping unannounced. We often suffer mild frostbite, so when possible, we gather where it’s warm and safe. Few of us realized it could get this jagged or insane, and we don’t seem able to mend and carry on. The good earth is crumbling while everyone bickers over their share and their side of the story.
You always loved the parable of the loaves and fishes. That basket of food you took to the hungry neighbors overflowed with a simple goodness we don’t see much of anymore. Buffoonery abounds—sadism cloaked as self-defense.
Of course, I understand why you stopped attending church. My Coauthor explains such things to me, but it’s awful, isn’t it? So many are choking on the thin wafers of hypocrisy and weeping over spilled wine.
The nightly news is intolerable. The strutting continues. And I’ve made some mistakes myself. I’m sorry. I continue to try to follow the advice you wrote in your birthday card to the grands:
When the going gets tough, the tough get going.
As it turns out, walking humbly may be the toughest thing of all.
In the wild, aging primates are generally left to fend for themselves, and I’ve come to appreciate both the wisdom and peril in that. Today, I fended my way to the basement to get bread from the freezer and accepted the indignities of clinging to the handrail as I ascended to make toast.
I would rather be reporting something more exciting, like how we danced all night, or my next career moves, or even which types of lipstick I currently recommend, but poetic license aside, I don’t lie outright (very often).
The Coauthors are gentle this morning. They speak in the tongues of galaxies and seasons, and remind me that chicks will hatch in the spring and demand breakfast with wide-open beaks, and some nests will blow down, and some will not, and either way, the turquoise of the robin’s egg will fade. It was never meant to last.
“I remember my father’s eyes,” I tell them. “They were iridescent.”
“Yes. And do you know why they were so blue?” they ask.
“Not anymore,” I admit.
My own blue eyes tear up. The photos of five generations sucker punch me every time I use the stairs. There are fingerprints on most of them. And fingerprints don’t lie either.
I tell myself that we, the living, are roots, holding the dirt so it doesn’t fritter away in a seductive breeze or dissipate when the floods come; that we are the fruit of the season, the seeds of the future.
“No you’re not,” the Coauthors say. “You’re confused. Your fingers are on the wrong keys.” They aren’t being gentle anymore.
“No. Your fingers are on the wrong keys.” This is not much of a defense, but it causes the Coauthors to back away. An eerie poem asserts itself.
Sirens we have heard on high
singing sweetly o’re the plains
of money and supreme success.
The star-struck mountains
crumble at their feet.
Through the holes
in the fabric of my universe,
the years drift by,
challenges looming,
fears lit by the moon
as it rises in the gathering night.
“Wait! I don’t think my confusion is entirely my fault, keys or no keys,” I tell the retreating Coauthors.
“And we aren’t blaming you!” they shout as they dive into an orbiting kaleidoscope of swirling geodes, crystals, and gems, and break into unearthly harmonies. Nothing anywhere near us is smooth, black, or white.
“But do I have a purpose?” I shout back.
“Yes and no,” they sing. “But you ask good questions, honey. Keep asking.”
“Hey, are you aware that we cut our teeth on climate change and invented belly fat as a little joke?” A Pouty Apparition startled me awake. I moaned. Petulant Voices chimed in, nodding. “We deserve a good laugh now and then, don’t we?”
I rolled out of bed and groped my way to the kitchen, fighting off the vertigo of a long life. People need sustenance before engaging in any meaningful way with a Peevish Universe.
Out the window, the ice-edged river flowed by while the coffee brewed. Petulant Voices started singing the national anthem. Dawn reversed itself as night rolled back in, and bombs bursting in air gave just enough light to locate the flag. A fierce Wind ripped it down and draped Old Glory across the backs of shivering calves being rounded up for slaughter. The Voices kept singing, “O’er the land of the free…”.
“Could you bring it down a notch?” I pleaded. This was not the kind of God any sane person would willingly deal with, but was there a choice?
“Of course and of course,” they declared. “There’s always a choice.”
An abrupt, unnerving calm settled as the Wind died down and the Voices faded into throngs of those silenced by extinction.
But it wasn’t over. “Don’t mind us,” they muttered. “We’ll just perch on this rock while you feed your face.”
I did not look up.
“We’ll just take a dip in the swimming hole while you guzzle beer.”
I rolled my eyes.
The Voices sighed in an elaborate show of patience. “We’ll just listen to a podcast while you get dressed.”
I shrugged, trying to keep my distance and hold myself together.
The Voices changed tactics and belted out a new song. A holiday favorite. “Do you hear what I hear?”
That did it. I gave up the pretense of sufficiency, looked into the dark eyes of death and bad choices, and said, “No. I do not hear what you hear. I do not see what you see. I do not know what you know. Would you mind leaving me alone now?”
“Not at all.” The Voices became the murmur of beating wings over untouched land, and finally, I could hear myself think.
“Come, let us reason together,” I said to what was left of myself.
“Oh, this ought to be good,” the Voices snickered. “Mind if we listen in?”
Due to recent excessive flooding, the gates of heaven have rusted open. Many are desperately trying to push them shut, but those damn gates won’t budge. I’ve heard that the administration plans to soak them in petroleum until the hinges loosen up and the wrong sort can be excluded again.
But for now, carcasses are rolling in unjudged and unimpeded except for the extra stars being glued to the crowns of those who were murdered, tortured, raped, or starved to death. These bodies often come in so emaciated or mutilated that they can’t be identified. Luckily, the Coauthor has published at least one story with every last one of them. These improbable tales of love, loss, and triumph provide guidance for the transformation of their bones. Even the shortest of stories, even the lowliest of lives.
The corpses of the blithely blessed, the perpetrators, monsters, and the enormously greedy are arriving too, but they’re receiving only standard allocations of stars. And no wings. Rumor has it that they’re trying to produce their own private stars and are threatening steep tariffs on feathers and halos.
“Don’t worry,” the Coauthor tells me. “Soon enough, it won’t matter. They’re making fake stars from rare earth elements and unfortunately, your planet is already on life support from all that extraction. All those wars. It won’t be long now.”
“Oh, God!” I exclaim. “Can’t you chip through the rust and slam those gates shut?”
My Coauthor looks at me with sad eyes. “Et tu, Brute?”
“What do you mean?” I demand, but I know exactly what she means, and I hate it. Liars and con men are trashing this beautiful earth. I don’t want justice, I want revenge. People I love have been treated unfairly. I don’t want mercy. I want revenge.
Revenge grows aggressively in the dark waters of the wounded, indignant heart. If you hurt me, I’ll hurt you. If you survive, you’ll hurt me worse, and so it goes, even unto death. One of us will go to hell. And then the other. It’s possible to break the cycle, but forgiveness is something most of us find difficult if not intolerable.
“Ah, maybe leave those gates open,” I mumble. “Afterall, we’re only human.”
The Coauthor turns her palms up in a gesture of helplessness.
“So true,” she says. “But in this iteration, you’re all I’ve got. And that just kills me. Any chance you could put on your Big Girl pants?”
“I don’t remember how.”
The Coauthor looks at me skeptically. “One leg at a time,” she says. “And hold someone’s hand if you need to. Balance is important.”
Short visits with an honest God 