MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2: hive Being (Stanzas 2017—part 3)
Let's workshop this stanza sequence about nursing homes, Alzheimer's, maps, overgrown routes, childhood dreams, pawn shops, eugenics, euphemism, pedophilia, Eskimos, evangelicals, war
childhood dreams, beyond GPS gridlines, slipping by like forests on toll highways music knocks over a memory domino in the nursing home prayer works, but never to regrow limbs for some godforsaken reason blaming on ignorance what is a fault of cowardice the pawn shop before the supermarket just waterbugs; just allergies; just heartburn giving parents credit for what is right with you sanitized vocabulary to mask the blood on technocrat hands—an additional crime strategizing to avoid becoming a eugenics target traffic-disrupting construction work ruins the morning, and thereby the whole day, for the panhandler who refuses to adjust a fifty-year-old debonair enough to charm the parents even of his fifteen-year-old girlfriend that coping fun of mocking how sensitive students are now, let not that conceal how much rape porn they see and so how much their sensitivity is but a thrill ploy to police faculty and—benighted buyers of Abs-in-a-Week, as USers tend to be—to evade work holding down your billowing dress even as you jump to death democracy’s problem was always that truth is not a democratic value the youthful titillation of a shower with a cousin staying by the bedside in shifts obsolete atlases diaries in book margins evading ennui by dreading ennui I’m a doctor, I fix the problems—this isn’t supposed to happen to me confessions, recollections, insights, commitments, doubts inscribed around the texts of past pilgrims hoping for co-creative resonance, time-warped fellowship of cross-exhumation for who knows why words between the bus-stop strangers activate memories and insights that, however personal to each, converge in one transcendent haze of mystery lest we fall within the play of nature as well, we think it horrible for man to intervene in the lion-giraffe battle the general and the triage surgeon called off the war for fifteen minutes to comfort the dying soldier as a father would zooming satellites lay bare jaded terrain once rousing hearts into perilous adventures—ones perhaps where revealing was harder to divorce from illuminating how obsolete are the maps if they direct us off expressways onto ancestral paths? seal-defense harpoon shots cutting short Eskimo songs dumpster divers charged with trespassing so many unanswered prayers forgotten—unless chalked up to defect in the prayer sadness overwhelming enough for shrieks instead of sighs he placed his redemption in future readers humble enough to let him inside their goals still whisper, sing for those with ears, through routes now overgrown stay gold, Ponyboy: let not the lack of rigor in so many popular atheists, plus the victimhood-cancel culture pushed by a left growing evermore cry-bully-like, lure you to become some radical right-wing evangelical exploiters who say, “Happy must be those who think only of bare necessities” all the winners believe in themselves, and so it is easy for them to say, “You can do anything if you believe”
This is a portion of an ongoing mosaic poem called Made for You and Me. This portion is from the first installment: hive Being (Stanzas 2016-2020). More specifically, it is from the 2017 portion of that five-part work.
