that requires a lot of attention and time. 

We’ll see if it pays off, but for now, a trifle inspired by "This American Life."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fishin’ Without Dale

dale carnegie said:

"i am fond of strawberries and cream.
when i go fishing, i bait the hook
with a worm.  fish like worms.
it is immaterial that i prefer
strawberries and cream.
i give the fish what they want
if i want to catch fish."

which explains a lot
about why i’m who i am —
a clumsy-ass mystic
with few friends,
no influence to speak of,
and not much hope
of achieving either.
.
right now, for instance,
i’m sitting in a rowboat
with a canoe paddle
and a pocket fisherman.
there’s a strawberry
on the end of the line
and i just dumped a whole quart
of coffeemate, 
a pack of organic cigarettes,
and a copy of "the cloud of unknowing"
over the side.

sound crazy? maybe.
but god only knows
what marvelous,
sensualist being
i’m gonna pull in.

our first child
was good, so good,
resolute and private,
brought us our meals on time,
was able to see through a thrown stone
in mid-arc, and then duck,
without a word of censure
for the thrower,
offering no rebuttal, just
"yes sir, sorry ma’am,"
and then moving on. 
those were the days.
 
and oh,  the second child
certainly knew its place:
behind number one. 
could wait and serve when called upon.
the music was a little
loud at times,
full of beats and hoots,
but mostly it was fun
raising that one,
at least for a while. 

we had to work harder
from the start with
number three,
who was possessed
of the crazy idea
that it was number one.
we had to keep it in line
with stern words,
a lot of slapping,
eventually confining it to a room
which we stripped
of all but the barest rations and
creature comforts.
it settled down,
but not completely.
we blame it for
a lot of what was to come,
but we never admit that —
to them, anyway.

we have to admit
that we never did a great job
of understanding number four
and the spice in its constant whining
in that silly rapid fire voice
about being more than the sum
of its arts.  (sneaky bastard.
did we mention that it,
like two and three, was adopted?
no? we had forgotten, almost.)

we took in number five
because of its inscrutability.
it was full of math, good at
simple tasks and a hell of a cook.
we still get along with them, a little.

there have been others,
now that we think about it —
we’ve never stopped to think
that much about them,
maybe when something of theirs struck our palate,
but oh, we think about them now!

we think it’s number two’s fault
that they’ve all become so strident,
even number one,
pointing fingers back at us when we scold.
we starve most days without them.
their stones make hard trajectories through thick air,
leave blue trails in the ether,
and we can’t see who threw what.
we blame them all.
we are nearly blind now,
confused, delicate,
hungry,
and slipping away.
we blame them all.
 
what’s a child
but an egg to be cracked,
dropped on a skillet, 
brought along to our taste,
then swallowed yolky and hot,
with colors clear and defined?
where did they learn to scramble?
what are we supposed to do with this pile
full of peppers and garlic, hot sauce, who knows what?
how will we know which one’s our favorite
if we can’t tell them apart?

what’s an old couple to do
about getting a bite to eat around here?

there’s a blue pilot light
under the stove
and there’s a manchild staring at it
from his spot on the floor

he thinks his own fire’s more golden
than that sapphire
he wonders which glows
hotter

jealous of the blue light’s utility
he imagines blowing it out
living on cold suppers
starving to keep his own spark alive

(or at least unique) within these walls
not paying the bills until
they come to shut it off
and then he’ll shine

the brighter
for sitting in the dark
cold and hungry
this is what he’s been taught

and this is why he’s lying there
with a growl in his center
another boy
not ready to be a man

staring at a gaslight
pilled out and drunk on his kitchen floor
convinced his own inner light
is all he needs to survive

we move among the cities

there are highways to lead us
cars to sleep in
couches and hostels and coffee shops
and there’s
gotta be some internet around here
somewhere

one of them has to be
a place that isn’t
like any other

ghosting our way
from north to south
east to west and back
spirits walking alone
in dirty backpacks

we used to be
other people
we will be
other people
again

if we can be
elsewhere
soon enough

…starring, stage left,
a bass — telling its stories
through a couple of fingers.
Someone laying pipe
for the flow to follow.
The same someone popping the welds on it
when the flow’s gotta get free.

When Shuggie Otis comes on
with an invite to Sparkle City,
that bass shakes me deep and simple:
a friendly hand opening a door,
shuffling me along to comfort,
giving a shout to someone unseen
to break out sweet tea and a good meal,
makes me agree that
"there is no offer
I would refuse…"

It’s not much —
it’s everything.

So give me
that rock steady bottom
any Sunday, because that’s church
softer than any pew,
keeping me warm on an ember
made of Bible pages.

This morning in particular,
it’s a big pillow
for a sad head
and the groove it cuts
holds me like a mother
I never had.

When they scream,
"Kill him!  Off with his head!"

I am appalled.
I would never scream such things.

I only whisper them to my pillow
(or at most, to trusted friends),

and only about people
who actually deserve it.