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The
Story of an Hour
thin
is
in
today
but be
ye not
distraught
thin will
out
and fat
will in
(and out)
again
for
outting
though all
the rage
today
is
always
in
just in
different
skins
circles
anyone
Old
Scratch Meets His Match
“So
long as he walks the earth alive,
So long you may try what
enters your head;
Men make mistakes as long as they strive.
.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
.
And stand ashamed when you must needs admit:
A good man
with his groping intuitions
Still knows the path that is true
and fit.”
1
Mephistopheles
inhabits a box;
Like Wagner he’s wrapped in rules: he
tells Henry,
His victim-to-be, “You must say ‘Come
in’
Three times, or I’ll have to leave.”
Later when Old Scratch
Is hot to drop the latch and catch the
Doktor
In his trap, the devilish pedant
Begs of Faust a
drop of indelible
Ink to sign their contract with, hoping
To
make Henry a permanent-press,
Fire-red shirt.
Mephistopheles
Is a lawyer at heart.
2
When
Faust asks who his new
Acquaintance is, Old Harry brags, “Why
I’m
Emperor of Deny! I’m King
Of
Emphysema– I battle breath! I preach
‘Abort!’
One of my favorite pastimes
Is following fire trucks to the
flames
I set. Bang’s Disease is my miracle.”
3
Mephisto
pushes Henry to lech after Gretchen:
“Sup on her
twin roes until they glow!”
That he’d love to
watch (the Devil can’t,
Of course, say love).
“I’ll
ply Faust with just
Enough of my best burgandy to raise
His
learned tool and pickle his soul.
A piddling feat for a fellow
like me.”
The
Devil
Drops to his knees and opens his arms to the
heavens:
“Oh Lord, how I lust to feast on that German
dessert!
See Henry soused and humpin’ his little virgin
While Mama Dear but a room away--
Pop-eyed, unable to say
a syllable--
Heaves her last with my ‘sleeping
potion’
Given her by Daughter Dear, no less,
Who got
the mix from my pahdna Faust.”
The Father of Lies rises
from his knees.
“And ol’ Romeo will present his
Jule
With a livelier, kicking gift.”
Our
voyeur’s leer
Spreads like a ripple in melted
lard.
“Then
I’ll have not only Henry, I’ll own his
silly
Scullion--camp in her noggin and cook her
conscience
Until the brain’s ablaze and she drowns the
little
Bastard to douse the flames (but later
They’ll
roar like hell!)--holds it under the swamp
‘Til its
lungs can’t pump. Then I can rest
And let the law
take charge. Thank the Lord
For the letter of the law!
They’ll plug the breath
Of that Catholic slut so I can
entertain
Her soul for a while, ‘til Henry’s half
of our
Contract starts and the gooey lovebirds enter
Their
long, sweaty tryst.” He swaggers about
And all
but beats his chest: “I’m Lord of Lies
And Dies as
well as Flies! I’ll swear to all
Save lo . .
.breath and truth. Haven’t I proved
To Martha her
faithful spouse is dead? Shown
He’d left what
little loot he’d plundered and hadn’t spent
To
some young wench who struts the streets of Venice?
Those small
fibs gave Madame Go-Between
A pang or two--and will give Good
Doktor a little ‘tang!
My greatest victory in years!”
4
Though
much he hopes for comes to pass,
Old Scratch is hardly
omniscient.
He’s a better comic than prophet.
Though
guillotined
For mother and child,
Gretchen isn’t
damned.
The Lord was right,
The Devil foiled;
Faust
strives, foggy truth
And Gretchen’s love prevail.
One
Lovable, Mongrel Soul; Or, Buddy
for
Alice
is
all body–with tail and soul. Sort of a Lab at bulldog
height
with half Lab, half bull face and snout, every time I
come home
he leads me slowly up the drive; I crawl along,
straining my neck
but often unable to see the fat black
brockwurst with Dumbo ears
wagging his full being in samba
soul to tip of tail,
gift in mouth, truck and I in tow toward
the house.
A savvy mutt who knows big is not better, Buddy
offers
on various afternoons a walnut, twig, or leaf
barely seen
outside his lips; a six-inch stick or three-feet long
limb,
the latter scraping the door jamb, sometimes breaking, as he
enters.
Size matters not; Buddy knows his
Whitman. Giving is all;
Buddy knows his Homer–knows
we like Zeus and Odysseus love gifts.
And knows Saint John:
it’s more blessed to give than to receive.
We laugh and
grouse picking up a walnut, leaf, or stick
in the foyer or
dining room–actually any spot
Buddy happens to drop his
treasure or plop to chew on it awhile
before slipping into
nap; we further chuckle and fuss when having
to check come
morning porch and steps, sometimes the yard, for a sock
or
bedroom slipper Buddy picked up in the dark as our gift to
him
when let outside at two or three in the morning.
Again, Buddy knows
his Homer: gifts are far more honor than
chattel. Like us, he covets honor,
like us wears warts,
endearing and annoying.
When
thirsty Buddy comes
to the kitchen or bedroom for Alice or me,
or rudely pushes open the closed
but uncaught downstairs
bathroom door and stands by the tub till she or I
turn on the
spigot; and after drinking so long we fear he’s diabetic,
leaves without so much as a Thank-you wag, dripping a
trail
across the foyer tile onto the ash dining room floor.
Having
more than once stolen my lunch from the edge of the kitchen
table,
my breakfast off a tray beside a lawn lounge chair,
Buddy seems
all belly–eats anything from okra to
bananas.
Quite affectionate, he will wash my face if I’m
sitting
on the floor. According to Sue he’s
smiling when his front teeth
slightly show. But–a
warning: when visiting don’t bend down
to greet him, for
this friendly, impetuous sausage may sprin
like a solid Texas
gusher to meet you and crack your nose
or bruise your cheek
with his short thick snout! Yet, logical as life,
Buddy
growls when petted while trying to sleep, and threatens any
hand
that touches his paw.
In
the coldest months we worry because he doesn’t
own a
heavy winter coat, and try to entice him to stay in the cellar
or
dog house when we’re away and cannot leave him in the
house.
But Buddy, stubborn, refuses: it’s the
brown braid rug near our Jotel,*
the carpet at the foot
of our bed, the front foyer, under the rose
love seat in the
never-used-except-by-Buddy front
living room, or, especially,
in the dark anywhere
Alice or I might stumble over his black,
invisible self
and break an ankle or wrist–in short it’s
a favorite spot
in the house (impossible when we’re
gone, of course) or else the concrete stoop
in back to catch
the southwest wind in January and give
us greatest guilt.
When
recently his collar batteries died,
Buddy realized his
freedom, escaping the hidden fence
into the pasture to feed
his soul by rolling in cow pies, rubbing with all
his muscle
his head in mound upon mound till dung caked every hair
and
pore of his head and neck along with both collars! And till
Buddy,
feeling transformed and perfectly perfumed, finally
returned
grinning jowl to jowl and making the largest
twelve-foot ceiling room
of our 1835 home smell like a feeding
shed in April
after a winter of serving pellets, hay and
corn–damp, singeing
the nostrils with an acrid attar
from months of manure slowly layered,
continually wetted,
stirred, and packed week upon week
by thousand-pound cows
jostling for close position at the table.
I scrubbed Buddy and
his collars for an hour in the shower
till all smelled like
Dial, transforming him again from lovable
to lovable, after
which ablutions I mopped the bathroom floor
and disinfected
shower walls and tub.
After
two transfigurations
Buddy strutted about the front yard all
afternoon.
Once when Gandhi, the Kelleys’ large German
shepherd, trotted down
Lancaster Pike at the foot of our
drive, Buddy, perfectly
safe of course, first barked and
threatened like a boot camp sergeant
with a bull horn.
Next he ran to the edge of our yard, a football field
away
from the road, stood steel stiff and defiant with hackles
high,
tail rigid and quivering at sixty degrees; and
then
pretending he’s Elmo, our eighteen-hundred pound
Angus bull
that Buddy watches court his twenty-cow harem and
hears bellow
and toot his brags in the pasture north beyond
the yard, he pawed
the ground with vigor throwing dirt and
grass high into the air.
*Norwegian
wood stove.
Everything
Its Opposite; Or, And I Ain't Lyin'
for
bill bailey
much
failure predicts success
as drought hints clouds
and doubt
digs fertile footers
for faiths seed
to drop deep
roots
sprouting biceps to the skies
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