“Little has changed since Mark Twain offered this assessment: ‘Suppose you were an idiot. And suppose you were a member of Congress. But I repeat myself.’”
Winter’s last sortie, the weather gods predicting
an inch or two of sturm und slush… Our skin, our lungs—
and the body’s other sentries all too aware
of a frost-bit crocus somewhere—groan. (It’s April 7th &
the clock radio woke us to crow about
American troops in Baghdad and “Chemical Ali,”
found dead in Basra.) John mocks the shrill right-wing
flunky from Defense: “Not occupy, liberate. We’re
there to liberate the shit outta them mothafuckahs!”
I had bad dreams, cried out, and thrashed till calmed,
apparently. My father’s dementia—and his slow
good night—was one goad, perhaps. Or was it that boy
kicking his spaniel on the street? Outside, a Tree-of-Heaven’s
dried keys rattle in the gathering confusion.
* Click on on the arrow icon below to hear Malcolm Farley read “Aubade”
Crusty saucepan soaking in the sink. Un-
stable pyramid of dinner plates, bowls,
a vase, silverware, wine goblets and one
strand of linguine festooning a roll.
Cautiously, I attempt to pull a dish
from the pile to rinse and use, but my grip
slides on a gruel of pesto, fried fish
and sour cream. The whole shebang teeters, slips,
and falls, clattering in the stainless-steel
basin. Damn! Did I wake my roommate up?
No. How lucky. Using my fingers to feel
what’s safe to lift, I uncover a cup
full of coffee and one battered peony
so red in its pool of black bilge, I let it be.
*Click on the arrow icon below to hear Malcolm Farley read “Chance Operations”