....From The Tree Of......................The Ranting Critic
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_______________________________________________________ Lesson Too Late Learned Of all the slippery bitches, I think the slipperiest one of all is the one who pretends friendship, yet blisters deep inside like measled, burning skin waiting (and they always do) for just the hook to pierce you. I'll tell you this: unless you go as limp as cooked macaroni, she's skewered you, and that's a fact unless you stay loose and uncaring enough not to blink when almost stuck... you'll find your way back home girl, by and by in ways she cannot, will not follow you; your magic is the thing she doesn't have. From These Lips To God's Ears There's no way to thread a thought through brain this hot unless it's ways of crawling off to die. I swear I'd hump a gargoyle guy if he'd promise to take me someplace cool and far away from this lung-wet, punishing blast of ozone meltdown. God, I want you to know I love creation so and didn't mean to wreck it with those thousand cans of gagful AquaNet before shampoo-then-blowdry made it easy to look more like one of Your children than the wild-eyed, hunted dog I know I am today. Hear me, Lord- and send Your mighty cold front. A Hundred Balloons Lollipops loft high above the Allegheny in the Regatta August sun; sail shyly, slow- graceful over Oakland with its gothic cathedrals spiking over the splendor of the broad stone homes of Mellon, Frick eventually to find their way to the river where the CrisCraft cabin cruisers meet the speedboats of the rich at the great confluence. Then on to hover above the lower Hill- place of displaced souls, coveted by investors who want to convert the old row hovels into stylish new construction made to look like old row houses with apartments worth what a city block is now; where black men on this day will stagger happy from the bars, pointing leathery, pink undersided fingers at the sky and laugh and laugh, not even thinking of their welfare running out or petitioning for jobs that aren't there; where each cramped household has a couple of 'chiles' too many, cause today- well Lawd, today the skies done up and bloomed a hun'erd fine balloons. Comparative Hearts I read a remark critiquing a poem that shocked me with its smallness. People make comment for many reasons: to stress how really smart they are- to be fair, be kind, to press self-serving lips to what is judged superior ass and rarely- every now and then- not often enough, because the poem opens up the heart and breaks a silence. But I read a remark about how "hurt one must feel, when personal grief is over-shadowed by the fetishistic mourning of a national catastrophe September 11th, two thousand one, in which thousands became breakfast for Beelzebub while close beside, lay a dying loved one- and I thought of all the ways things are- how grief cannot compare to grief, one lesser to a greater part, as though pain has any means at all of measure, save by those whose lives are calculated studies; their eyes made small by seeing what is bigger, wanting more, and even sometimes, growing ill from it- for those whose grieving breathes just like a bellows, they are buckets, scooped out wells of self,holding what they hold, overflowing as they will, but most often growing deeper, never full with no more room for anyone else- and I thought how ugly, selfish, spun-on-self this person's world is, and I wondered why the others don't see it too. Crossed Fingers I think how we say the things we say, and animate everything with life: the mountains roar, the stone skips, time flies- or we exaggerate like "swallow the sun" or "bat the moon right outta the sky", or "love you till the day I die" when really, it's an easy bet the sun, the moon and time will be as movable as the heart when it decides that all is lost- that there is greener grass or better ass, elsewhere. How It Happens Beware the one you can't insult. That one will have your worldone day unless you pay no heed. Respond to it, give it ear at all and you are done for and the treasures of your heart will all desert you lest they fall into the place you will believe is home but home has changed its locks you are a danger to it now. You were duped convinced that kudzu was a harmless tree, you sold your soul for flattery, betrayed your deepest part. She sucks your blood. She rides your coat- makes sure the photos always show you holding hands. It happened by the hair's breadth. She is patient, for her talent is the oldest one: in-cin-u- ation, so you can't remember when you didn't love her. Ragtime Here she comes again, the 'Christian girl' with the matchstick walk, eyes the color of bouillon. Eyes with nothing in them but water and judgement, two things safe enough for her worldview which is looseleaf ruled and collated tidily; turns a Gorgon head at the bell laugh of a girl all shades of taffy ........golden gift of a girl who feels blood from head to toes; who is alive, whose tongue moves against white teeth like pearly, opera-seated tiers, with lips the color of nipples, soft as kisses till she stopframes- sees the Martha moving toward her with a newspaper only fanatics would see as such. It is a tract. "It is a child. Not a choice.", the banner reads above a fetus, curled as a tuber in an amniotic universe of God's good grace. "I heard some things," she glints, smiles her millimeter smile, drops the paper on the desk and walks away in what she thinks are Jesus shoes ..........but we know ..........better .........................we know ................. that hot clack of brittle heart in skim milk breast. We know the taffy girl's sin was being pretty and alive and nothing more, so we leave the busy body in her struggle to make sense of being born both human and divine which is not a problem using all five senses and one soul; you cannot do it, words alone. You need ...............the falling and the rising up again, you need those knees skinned and you need to taste the rain commixed with the other fella's bleeding; forget about shoes, it is his skin you need to be in .............for........nothing less is love, I fear and I think that there, but for the grace of this unruly, headstrong heart go I; unable to be led, but must needs follow it- its tatters flying gaily toward a laughing Son I recognize by his rags; those most of all. Movable Kingdom Tents, striped and pennanted move on waves of impetus. Follow, then the fools and scribes, the knights who love their jousting challenge poem after poem, sometimes leaving bloodied, off to try another fairground. Maidens throwing blooms of verse- kerchiefs, and occasionally baring breasts they're the po e try light travelers- peripatetic, making then breaking camp, and every kingdom has its one politic, uterused manipulator wearing all the faces in the world and mostly fawning: smiling smiling. Spitting Tacks Store them in your cheeks, the sharp, round headed piercers- have them ready when you need them. Use your tongue to sort, and like machine gun fire, you spit a tack. Upholsterers know the trick, but I urge every thinking man to have a wad of quick retorts to nail a thought. Nail the mumbling son of a bitch who webs his words around a thing until he's choked it's meaning. If you're fast, you'll smother him- shut down the fool. Re-covered like that ugly chair that's now become a rather lovely footstool. Yippie Ki Yay Before you go tuggin on them John Wayne boots better check your myth as well: it better be big- but come to think of it, as far as myths go --you'll have no problems there. 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