*
With no right to complain, I yet mewl and fuss.
I am sore put out.
*
Worst is, I’ve got nary to blame excepting myself.
I should kick my own ass, is what.
*
Last week in a nearby town we had a cop shot by another cop, they was trying to arrest him for banging an underage police explorer. I’m in two trials with completely unexplainable homicides where there is only going to be either a bad ending or a worse one. I read some shit in the LA times about a teacher tying up kids and putting roaches on them before making them do something so depraved and sickening that I won’t say what, and this was while the kids were in school. All around me these close friends are losing their twenty year marriages to infidelity.
And all I really give a shit about is my own unhappiness.
*
Do you sometimes wish you could just shed your whole being like the dead skin of a snake?
Well, who doesn’t wish that from time to time?
*
This seems to help some, though. I love me some Cormac McCarthy. And I like that biblioklept blog some, too. You might check it out if you’ve a mind to.
*
In honor of my bad mood, here is some Gilbert for you. Although it is really just for me.
***
GOING WRONG
*
The fish are dreadful. They are brought up
the mountain in the dawn most days, beautiful
and alien and cold from night under the sea,
the grand rooms fading from their flat eyes.
Soft machinery of the dark, the man thinks,
washing them. “What can you know of my machinery!”
demands the Lord. Sure, the man says quietly
and cuts into them, laying back the dozen struts,
getting to the muck of something terrible.
The Lord insists: “You are the one who chooses
to live this way. I build cities where things
are human. I make Tuscany and you go to live
with rock and silence.” The man washes away
the blood and arranges the fish on a big plate.
Starts the onions in the hot olive oil and puts
in peppers. “You have lived all year without women.”
He takes out everything and puts in the fish.
“No one knows where you are. People forget you.
You are vain and stubborn.” The man slices
tomatoes and lemons. Takes out the fish
and scrambles eggs. I am not stubborn, he thinks,
laying all of it on the table in the courtyard
full of early sun, shadows of swallows flying
on the food. Not stubborn, just greedy.
*
Namaste, begrudgingly.
***
You always satisfy.
well.
that is a fine thing to say.
and I’ll take it, with thanks.
yrs-
tearful
Damn, it’s getting crowded in this soup pot! Glad for such Noble company.
Oops, I don’t like anonymous comments. That was an oversite. It’s me.
Laura-
thanks for unanonymousing yourself! I like to know who’s who in the zoo, too!
Anyhoo, thanks.
yrs-
Scott
Well, I found out today that there are three people in my life who love Gilbert. My friend Leslie died more than five years ago, and then there’s me and then there’s you.
Well, that is two more than I ever knew about, and I am glad for it, even if Leslie is dead.
If anything would make him happy, I think Leslie being a fan might.
At any rate, perhaps you have to be kind of broken to like what Gilbert has to offer. Perhaps that’s true of any poetry.
yrs-
Scott
scott, this is an especially beautiful piece of artwork here.
–susan
that was me, not an anonymous person. sorry.
Susan-
Thanks. It’s an old one, back when I was doing non-digital collage.
glad you liked it.
yrs-
Scott
Well, I like the poem a lot and I, too, mewl and fuss and get all tangled up in my own tangled, jangled nerve endings but dammit- now I find I am not a southern writer because I have never ONCE written about a dead mule. Dammit. Although I do write sometimes about the mule next door and she’s old and maybe she’ll die and I’ll write about her and then I’ll have bona fides.
We can only hope.
I think you’ve just got your bona fides in that comment!
yrs-
Scott
I was feeling heavy and weepy a couple of days ago with no real reason. I woke up that way. I chalked it up to menopause, but I’m not sure men have the biological equivalent.
I mostly try to keep my mind and heart on how fortunate I am and the things I love about my life when I am feeling deprived. But there are those times when that does not work.
I’m thinking in your line of work that there is a burn out and a strong need to compartmentalize. If you were not so focused on yourself, you’d really have to take in all the mayhem and ugliness that you deal with each day… like the roaches thing… and that would drive anyone mad. I’m chalking your moods and internal angst up to some kind of subconscious form of self preservation. Without it you would likely not be able to do your job, and it’s an important job. Thankless, but important.
Hang in there Mr. Grumpy pants.
Peace,
pf
PF-
I think you’re right in focusing on how fortunate we are when we’re feeling down. It’s true, my blessings are abundant, ridiculously so. You’re also right about burn out and compartmentalization. The reality is that you do get used to it, and most things just stop bothering you. There are still the occasional bad ones that slip past your defenses, but they don’t come along every day.
Anyway, thanks for the kind words and the company. Always appreciated.
sometimes it’s jack gilbert who keeps me alive. i have everything i can have of him, which isn’t enough.
i knew you liked him and it’s always pleased me to know it.
and i couldn’t do your job. but i’m glad you can. and i’m glad you do it with the heart you have. keep yourself safe. what mia said.
For me the heart of Gilbert is “The Great Fires” and yes, he is someone you can read when things are at their worst and it helps.
I am really glad we’re friends. Not me and Gilbert. You and me.
yrs-
Scott