worthless (prompt 3)
I didn’t say I’m worthless
I didn’t say I’m worthless (he did)
I didn’t say I’m worthless (I thought it)
I didn’t say I’m worthless (but the insinuation was there)
I didn’t say
HOUR #4 (“She was, after all, only a rabbit.”—Jasper Fforde, The Constant Rabbit)
She was, after all, only a rabbit,
said the moderator,
trying to keep the peace
during the particularly rowdy debate
at the daily All-Squirrel meeting.
The rabbit had appeared
seemingly lost, foraging for food
and was quickly set upon by the squirrel patrol
for trespassing.
Amongst whistles and chirps from both sides of the aisle
(Throwing nuts was of course forbidden)
There was to be no consensus;
The rabbit had to go.
But one squirrel-
a scrawny loner
with a mediocre nut collection record,
used to sitting in the back
and keeping his squeaks to himself-
rose to her defense,
emitting a whistle so piercing
it suspended the room in stillness.
“If we exile this rabbit
for the sole crime of trying to survive
How are we better than those
who threaten us?”
(Humans, cars, little humans who chase us, pesticides-the list is long.)
His whistle,
floating over the other squirrels like a revelation
was suddenly replaced by chirps of agreement,
a few at first, then a flood;
the room exploded with a new sound
something between a chirp and a bark and a chuck.
And suddenly, the squirrels descended upon the rabbit
This time to embrace her
And welcome her to the family.
The lone squirrel,
having moved away from the joyous fray,
chirped to himself,
showing his toothy smile
And popped a nut in celebration.
Car Peace
The Afternoon claim’s my time.
Where my safe haven is inside my ride.
My windows become my eyes
granting me protected views into the world.
The mechanical air chills my soles
as my feet rest upon the dashboard.
Relaxing to the sound of a bird’s melody.
Nestled into my seat, I find a nap that calls me.
My car gives me a perfect little piece of peace.
Picture
Picture
She holds her arms to her head, fingers
poised to click, her maroon dress blowing
with the wind as each breath shaking
her chest, each time pushing the bridge
out of focus, ‘til it’s out of reach.
She wishes she had someone to take
a picture of her as she stands facing
the sun that rises as it sets, still
billowing in each breeze, a moment
to keep, ‘til she blurs just the same.
The Travels of Desire
The last line by Yi Lei
Long, long ago, a dried, kosher salami
sought me out and filled my world with a fervor
for the chewy comfort of that
pinched and shriveled skin.
Becoming a vegetarian, my cravings turned away from my
childhood and hunted out recipes of beans and lentils with
a multitude of casseroles combining rice or noodles
with greens and cheeses.
Flirting with the world of the vegan, I found
a passion for a vegan jerky and would eat bags
of it during lunch at work as a kind of homage
to that cured meat I was so fond of.
Now with disease and the ongoing pandemic,
I have landed into the world of dried mangos
and chew with such pleasure despite everything.
Desire is dead, long live desire.
Self Portrait
bright colors splashed on
tight,
white canvas to convey
hopes
unrealized and boundless new
dreams
cast to the winds of
chance
eyes painted bright and
full
with the promise of
tomorrow…
tomorrow…
tomorrow.
Hour 4, Grazing
Grazing
after Matt Rasmussen
I know you didn’t choose this place to die / you chose another / but I still imagine the shoulder of your favorite chair / spattered with red. / I cannot help / each time I curl my neck onto the cushion / like a bird preening its feathers / but to think about the absence / at the meeting of your skull and neck / or at least that is where I imagine it / the bullet’s nest / though I suppose I don’t know where the cavern laid / but my scar runs across my first vertebrae / a pink line across the grassy landscape of my scalp / and I’d like to think your ghost shares the same. / But I digress / this chair is where I mourned you / where I still mourn you / silently and with a smile / stretched across sharpened teeth / as I chat with family / as they see me laugh so hard I cry / and rehydrate the leather once more / differently now that I’m observed / but I sit here and / “I wish the god of this place / would put me in its mouth / until I dissolve, until / the field doesn’t end / and I am broken down / like a rifle, / swabbed clean.”
Fog
The fog is palpable.
It drifts through me,
And in me,
And chills me to my core.
It doesn’t feel real.
I don’t feel human.
After the Third Alarm
Does the dawn call so quickly?
Morning like a flashlight through the red
window, stuttering and shy
If only I could draw myself from the cave
of quiet silence
into the world begging, begging me to join
(Hour 3)
Return of Folly
———————————-
Last lines, and theme, taken from ‘Praise of Folly’ by Erasmus of Rotterdam (1511).
Translated with an introduction and notes by Betty Radice (Penguin Books Ltd., London, 1974).
———————————-
Folly speaks:
I have missed you, mortal souls.
Though I have not been away.
Five hundred years since last we spoke.
Yet you have worshipped every day.
If you’ll allow me to find fault –
It’s likely my uncertainty
Would be that once or twice too often
Your folly transform’d to cruelty.
Take weaponry – although of course
I am grateful for the vaulting
of my fiefdom over that of War…
A bomb to make the whole earth molten?
And whilst feasting has ever been
A passion of both yours and mine
I watched small countries starve the world
Of bread, whilst they grew drunk on wine.
Pestilence, that naughty fellow
Has been abroad, but curiously
You paid him little heed; instead
You sacrificed too much to me.
But I cannot stay to chide
It’s not my nature; more’s the pity
I speak now to offer hope
To… redirect your folly more fitly.
Please recall that love is better
Fitted to my jolly altar
Please remember I would rather
See you sing, or rhyme, or balter.
Though your cynic side urge caution
Open arms to those who offer
Care and kindness, health and home
To you and those you think the other.
Don’t believe the poisoned-tongued,
Though in my temple they would stand
And prey upon your blind devotion;
Your mortal power is to refuse their hand.
These have been five heavy centuries –
And now I think I’d like to see
Some folly in a brighter form
Some deep and vulnerable empathy.
Keep safe, my sweet and silly mortals
Keep one another safe. And so Goodbye.
Clap your hands, live and drink;
Distinguished initiates of folly.