Anamnesis
Anamnesis
In the spangled mist
A broken balmy forest
Breathes deep, waits–and sighs
There will be a four private plane pileup over Pocatello Killing fourteen percent of the Democratic contestants (you tragically think this is tragic) Conspiracy theorists will wonder how it was that the ones who should already be dead and those who are secretly already dead Survived while those “pretty and witty and gay’ ended up as undercooked hamburger strewn across the potato fields of Idaho. Al will fly in for the eulogy, saying “We will put their carbon in a lockbox” a reference nobody gets but becomes the phrase historians quote when examining this dark period
You will again fail to create a verb for social justice warrioring almost causing embarrassment when, during your kid’s career day at school Billie, forgetting it was Tuesday, tears his dress as she climbs halfway on his desk shouting “Ima Justice League of America” waving her arms around until he almost HITS somebody Some children trembled, one almost cried Luckily Billie was sent to the Principal’s Office where she was harvested for his organs
You will become so distraught about how much your country sucks that you will travel almost all the way to Lexington to listen to someone with a real accent tell you all the difficulties she had sneaking in. You want to give her money but she won’t need any You give it to someone else who says they will help but they will buy a bottle of wine instead, causing yet another divorce
All the Bond Chicks will be cast as gross old fat men like me, finalizing the MeToo Movement in much the same way you saved the polar ice caps from melting (Oh! James!)
In a miracle of serendipitous beauty, Elizabeth’s reconstructive surguries (due to what you thought was a tragic plane crash) include little Billie’s eyebrows. They somehow give her new face a pert, sardonic look that appears to be exciting voters while also quadrupling her Native American heritage NPR’s ancient analysts croak that “This may be Bernie’s Waterloo” a reference nobody gets since history got cancelled
When I want to explore the Nature of Man,
I point to our shared history of plants.
Vanilla, coffee, sugarcane, bananas, yes!
I want to talk about the knowing part
of fruit on that tree in the Garden of Eden.
I feel like an idiot in the produce section,
trying to pick out something
that is good for us.
Every day I walk past a patch of earth.
In it are burrows, two foxes live inside
that deep space.
They were out in the sunlight-
I began to approach but stopped
when I saw their eyes.
You stay there.
You stay on your concrete,
with your naked horror,
and slash-toothed malice.
Human greed
is our crucifix.
Power is a nail
pounded into wrists.
OPEN: personal log
i am enjoying my
current mobile sensory input
and material manipulation unit (CMSIMMU: “sim-sim-oo”).
most call these a “human body”,
having forgotten we are
eternal beings,
operating this flesh only
a brief moment.
i remember
the times before this time;
other units
i have inhabited.
also, i have the manual.
i have already chosen
my next unit–
a deep sea slitherfish
in a water world
near Andromeda.
my current model works fairly well.
sensory input includes a very narrow band of
the electromagnetic spectrum humans
call “visible light”.
auditory input is across a limited frequency range,
with dual curved collection devices (“ears”) that spin
the sound inside the head for decoding.
an orifice called a “mouth” that can
generate communicative sounds and intake
food, liquids, and the various gases
inside this planet’s atmosphere. In a
fun twist on galactic norms, this
“mouth” can function as an arousal point
and sex organ.
i could go on (for example,
detailing a fascinating system
called the “big toe”), but, since i am
overdue for a sensory experience
known here as a “bowel movement”,
i will end with a note
about “hands”.
this CMSMMU features dual extension
arms with fine-featured grabbers humans call
“hands” mounted at the end.
you can do nearly anything with
these babies. God gets an A+ for these.
in fact, i do nearly all my material manipulation in this plane
with these “hands”, each of which has
four relatively independent fingers
and an opposable thumb–
brilliant!
just this morning, i used these in mastering an art-sound
instrument called a “piano”.
they need one of these on Tyrlphfghntwmt,
where the dominent species
enjoys eighty-eight digits.
uuummmmm.
i am registering lower torso pressure,
so i must go for now.
i will add more information on my CMSIMMU
before the next solar spin.
CLOSE: personal log
“Mama, Papa, he wants to marry me.”
Ann was old enough, for sure, but
How do you say yes to the only child.
Family’s hope, dreams going out the door.
Mama pondered through her salty tears,
Her solution devised to fit those dears,
Pa and I will stay right close to stand guard
You may marry, but cannot leave the yard.
Ann left her parents’ house, only on the day
Her house heard the last nail strike.
Six Rooms, a nice porch and best for all not
Fifty feet from those who could not let her stray.
Anywhere not out of sight and sound and steps.
Worked fine for the longest time, kids had two places
To call home, the grands were never alone.
Spoiled They were, I guess, blessed with Ma’s good graces.
But as they will, kids did grow and paid no attention
To rules about where they could wander.
Pa and Ma with broken heart and failing strength
Soon left their precious yard for good and ever.
Houses still sit there now with other folks, we might
Wonder why with all that land they sit so close,
Not understanding the human heart and how
One child can command such a building plan.
Standing at the sink
Trying to wake up
Noticing an ant
Crawling up the wall
Wondering when she ate last and
Speculating about her solitary mission.
Scooping her up on a business card
Carrying her to the back porch
Crumbling up a Trader Joe’s corn chip
Offering her a tiny piece of it
Watching her slowly walk away
Contemplating what I’ve just done.
numbness reigned.
It was the year of not being able
to write, to focus beyond a line.
It was a year of inability
to finish anything that had once mattered
as if the concept of completeness died with you.
The Atlantic pines on Camden’s camgrounds,
the Adriatic pines on the beaches of Ravenna,
all the pines in the world wish they were the pines
hidden among the inland lakes in upper Michigan
where the trees listen to violin strings vibrate,
brass buzz, maracas shake, the fluid sounds
of air blown through the double reeds of bassoons
oboes gusting from cabins all day long, mingling
with breezes from the lake and in the final
concert by the world youth symphony, dancers
on the roof of the bowl, sun setting on the water,
summer ending on the Interlochen theme,
the trees join in the audience’s silent applause.
