dowdicus

[dowdicus]

Ode to the Lint in My Belly Button

Oh lint in my bellybutton, Whence comest thou? Surely you, Who keeps my navel warm at night, Are the manifestation of love And warmth, And all things good, Which cradle in the center Of my being.

Lint, though you are gray, Do not despair! Those who wash you out Are empty inside, Where I am full.

Oh lint in my bellybutton, How I miss thee so, When I search And find naught In the center of my being. Lint, you Omphalic dust Collecting in the center of life, I mourn for the outties Who do not know you.

Lint you gay gathering Of dust and of hair, May you ever return to my navel: May we ever be paired.

[dowdicus]

Up and Down (12/21/06)

She crossed my mind today like a long, slow train crossing a busy road. You know, she always seems to do that to me when I’m under a heavy load. I tell myself “what does it matter?” It matters, ’cause it makes me feel so…

Sometimes I look around me and what I see is something I’ve never seen before. And sometimes I listen to people and it seems they’re asking me to open a door. There are times when everything seems so common I can't take any more But every once in a while I feel so…

I can tell right now I can’t make up my mind but I’m pretty sure I don’t know. More often than not things seem far more black than white. And when I wake up those same gray shades get so very light— Sometimes it makes me feel so…

You know I’m blind sometimes and sometimes I see everything. Times do come when even I tire of all my bitching.

She’ll cross my mind tomorrow like a long slow train stopping across a busy road. You know she can do that to me no matter how heavy the load. And I’ll think to myself “It doesn’t matter at all,” but then I’ll look out the window and see how the traffic has stalled.

[dowdicus]

Gulf

“How's the woodworking going?” James must be thinking of my brother “It's alright,” I offer Have you sold anything? “No, nothing,” I say. “It’s a hard business to break into. A lot of people don’t appreciate it.” He tells me about a jewelry box he made that his daughter didn't want.

I have little patience for strangers. I don't often care to disabuse them. They call me the wrong name I answer their questions About things I haven't done. I only have so much of myself to give away.

I’ll ask the therapist on Wednesday, “What's wrong with me? Why is it so hard to connect with others?” It seems like there should be some kind of answer. Something must have happened To make me so alien So haughty and undeserving of kinship Strangers tell me happy birthday And I am angry they know something about me

Dad asks me if I’m alright. I very clearly am not. I have been trying to keep it together So that no one will ask me what’s wrong. “Yeah.” He doesn’t challenge the lie. Minutes later I break the silence: “Well, I’m going home.”

[dowdicus]

Button

I haven’t wanted to ask this. I’ve been afraid asking would be the end of our relationship.

But I’ve already wasted so much time and energy trying to figure out if I imagined our connection—if I’m imagining the disconnection. Reality is hard to grasp through mania and depression, Every crumb of attention starts the cycle over.

The truth is, our relationship ended a long time ago. I just hadn’t figured it out until recently. What exists now is two people who used to know each other, Being friendly from time to time. So what is there to be afraid of?

I’ve spent a lot of time replaying our conversations, Trying to understand when things changed. I am profoundly wounded that you couldn’t say, “Something’s happened. I need space.” A friend would have said, “This isn’t working. You need to work on this.”

So I need to know if we're friends.

What happened? Why did things change?

[dowdicus]

Severed Connection

Late nights for days– unable to sleep or focus or do anything, racing thoughts down the freeway. I was thinking of the women I know and how lovely they are, when something reminded me of you, and I reached out– and you were excited about the people who still matter to you

I slept last night. No more racing. I was thinking how I used to be part of your life, and how quietly you slipped away. You didn’t even leave a note. I sat in a chair, thinking at nothing, until I felt bad

Bitter thoughts may be cruel– but joy is no ally. The good days are a Trojan Horse. The bad days are reality. And each day rewrites the last, except when emptiness comes– and both inside and outside the horse, there is

nothing.

[dowdicus]

Sign/Signified

I’ve been thinking, Lately– I never wrote you a poem. It’s strange to me. I usually write my lovers poems. But I’ll admit I kept you at arm’s length.

I think being friends with you Has made me feel closer to you. And I feel the kind of love I want to feel: Not the terrifying, heart-palpitating Need Of a new relationship, But I admire you. I think you are everything I want to be.

It’s challenging, Writing a poem for someone. You may love some tiny, offhand detail about their person, And they’ll say, “that’s not me.” And then you must reconcile [them] with them. And I’ll always wonder If I love [you] or you.

And now I’ve written a poem for you— Or maybe for [you]— And though I'm not sure the difference is clear, I’ve forgotten what I intended to say, Having gotten lost in sweet memories Of happy smiles on your face.

[dowdicus]

Sometimes

I finished reading and slipped to the back of the crowd. “I didn’t know you wrote poetry.” We were both surprised. I thought everyone wrote poetry.

Years ago, a friend and I floated down a river in Missouri, love taking shape in the air between us— “I’ve noticed you don’t speak with proper grammar,” she observed, approvingly. “John Dryden can go fuck himself,” I replied, “The way people speak is what is magical about language.”

I ain't worried too much about grammar— But I spell as good as I can. Grammar’s like color theory: useful, sure, but not the thing itself. It helps you tell the difference between "I liked what she said" and "Her words caught me, held me up in the light of her living."

My brother, when we were kids, would irritate our mother Saying “I gots a new basketball,” looking her right in the eye. I never cared much for the word myself— But I wouldn’t have punished him for speaking his truth. She wanted us to bear the markers of civilized society, But– As Ross might have said, I gots no time for that.

I’d be shocked To find anyone who never sang in place of speaking.

[dowdicus]

So Many Reasons Why

When they diagnosed me I was in the middle of my divorce Astonished at how I had come to find myself In that time and place I told my girlfriend I was extremely lucky. She said, no, I had worked hard to get where I was.

I watched a Palestinian child sob and shiver On the dirt floor of a hospital tent Her skin burned away. No anesthetic. No triage. No comfort. I try to imagine what that feels like. I fail.

My mom likes to say she worked hard to get where she is. She wasn’t lucky.

I think about Victor Jara. Somos cinco mil. I try–and fail–to imagine how it feels To sing for a better world, And be forced to play guitar with no fingernails. Maybe knowing you are forsaken is worse. Maybe it’s the fingernail thing.

The national guard shot four year old Tanya Blanding with a tank while she hid in her living room. A cop shot twelve year old Michael Ellerbe in the back. Cops only come for me with warnings about driving too fast. I’ve never even seen a police car at my parents’ house in the sticks.

My parents both told me I worked hard to get where I am. They didn’t like hearing me say that I’m lucky. When Adam and I got arrested The cops knew his dad. (“Aren’t you Hot Rod’s boy?”) They booked us and charged us and a few weeks later The court case vanished into thin air My parents say it wasn’t luck–it was because they hired a lawyer

When I was a child I had a good friend His dad, in childhood, had been my dad’s good friend My dad would take me into the woods and teach me to identify Trees and plants and animal tracks His dad taught him to buy his Sunday beer on Saturday and huff gasoline to get high.

I once drove by my friend’s house–not too long ago–intending to stop I passed by instead That evening my phone rang again and again Where was I? Where was my friend? His parents and siblings had been murdered. The cops held him and did everything they could to get him to confess. He still can’t convince himself they were wrong.

When I was a kid my parents bought an acre of land from Dad’s uncle for one dollar.

[dowdicus]

Gallery View

White names on black backgrounds Silence “What can we say about the way this writer uses pathos?” Silence White names on black backgrounds

John is the only one who talks John is speaking up again. “I think the author sounds disappointed.” John is speaking up again. John is the only one who talks.

One student in the classroom. One set of eyes to contact. One locus of discomfort to fill the silence One presence to reassure

White names on black backgrounds Silence “How is everybody feeling today? Let’s take a few minutes to chat and warm up.” Silence White names on black backgrounds

[dowdicus]

What I took

Behind my desk in sixth grade math is a small, unobtrusive bookshelf.  Like most of the furniture in our school, it’s made of particle board, with generic wood grain veneer darker than the veneer on our desks.  It’s short and squat, with five rows of books.  Mrs. Bryant, the math teacher, or perhaps the school’s custodial staff, keeps the room well-dusted, and the shelf is clean, apart from the collection of cracked and faded paperbacks it houses.  It stands apart from the larger bookshelves with dictionaries, encyclopedias, and board games.  

I have a trick that usually gets me through lectures, but it doesn’t work so well for math.  Most of the time, I read my textbooks.  It looks like I’m paying attention that way, but I'm really just reading the short stories and case studies, the good stuff.  Now, I try poking around in the desk in Mrs. Bryant’s room, but the student who normally sits there doesn’t keep any books inside.  There’s an English textbook, and those usually have some good stuff, but there is no way to pull it out and read through it without getting caught.  There’s Mrs. Bryant's bookshelf, but I don’t know if I can get into it without being noticed.

Mrs. Bryant dims the lights and flips the switch to turn on the projector, and I start to eyeball the shelf.  The black and yellow-white spines of books, interspersed with the occasional blue, green, or red, are like the neglected, crumbling keys of an old, out-of-tune upright piano kept in someone’s living room as a decoration.

I resist the bookshelf that day, but keep an eye on it for the next few days—it never changes.  The books remain in their uneven rows of concave spines; none of them are ever even tipped out from having been looked at.  Keeping one eye on Mrs. Bryant as she works through a math problem on a transparency, I reach out with my left hand, placing my index finger on the yellowed top of an Anne McCaffrey book, tilt it out of line, grasp it with the rest of my fingers, and swiftly pull it off the shelf, hiding it under the lip of the desk, halfway inside the desk’s cavity.

I can’t hold the book up to my face for fear of being caught, but I can smell it faintly, like the dry leaves on the forest floor in the summer.  Holding the book down in my lap, leaning it against the bottom lip of the desk’s opening, I read cautiously.  I have to pay attention to the class--turn the page in the math book when necessary, and be prepared to answer questions when called upon.  As Mrs. Bryant nears the end of her lesson, I dog ear the page I’m on, and slide the book back into its place on the shelf.  

As the year progresses, I grow more confident at my stealth reading.  I learn to situate my math book so I can angle my head in such a way that I appear, from across the room, to be studying it instead of reading a book.  I figure the signals Mrs. Bryant gives before she starts calling on students, so that I can be more engrossed in my reading during certain parts of class.  It doesn’t take long for me to finish the bookshelf’s selection of fantasy books, making it difficult for me to decide what to read.

There is one book that interests me, but I’m not excited about actually reading it.  Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men sits on the shelf, white cracks running like lightning through its black spine.  I know the story.  My brother and I had watched the movie version with Dad a few times.  The one with Gary Sinise and John Malkovich.  After the first time he saw it, Ross had asked Dad, “Why’d he shoot that guy for?”

“Because that other guy with the glove, Curly, was gonna shoot him in the belly and let his guts hang out and let him suffer.  But George and Lenny was friends, and George didn’t want him to suffer like that.”  

“Oh.”  It’s hard to say if Ross was satisfied with Dad’s answer.  It seemed like a decent enough movie to me, but it was just a movie.  Dad says the book is better than the movie—and there aren’t a whole lot of books that hold his interest.  He identified with the characters in the book, the way they went around looking for work, living hand to mouth, trying to survive.  He had lived a life like that, day laboring, dreaming of getting a little place of his own.

I know it’s a story about the real world, and I prefer escapism.  I try to sit through math class instead of reading a book about the real world, as there can’t be much difference between the two.  It doesn’t take long for me to grow so bored of math class that I decide to read the book, even though I already know the story.  As I did with all the others, I sneak it off the shelf and open it in my lap.  I move through the story quickly, taking only a couple of math lessons to finish.  I let my guard down as I read, losing myself in the book’s worldly prose.  As I reach the end, I can feel the strain in my face and the tears welling up in my eyes as Lennie asks George, “Ain’t you gonna give me hell again?” but I can’t put it down—I have to see how the scene plays out.  “’Guys like us got no fambly. They make a little stake an’ then they blow it in. They ain’t got nobody in the worl’ that gives a hoot in hell about ‘em—‘”

Every couple of lines I have to look up to the ceiling, trying to slow my pace.  “’Go on,’ said Lennie, ‘How’s it gonna be?  We gonna get a little place.’” Eyes aimed back at the ceiling, I focus on breathing as Mrs. Bryant drones on about math.  I know what’s coming.  “’No, Lennie. I ain’t mad. I never been mad, an’ I ain’t now.’”  I blink, and a tear escapes from my eye.  Mrs. Bryant moves toward the middle of the room.  I quickly press my fingers into my eyes to wipe away the excess fluid.  “Slim twitched George’s elbow. ‘Come on, George. Me an’ you’ll go in an’ get a drink.’”  I close the book, and sneak it back to the empty slot on the bookshelf.  Breathing slowly through my mouth, I keep my eyes pointed up, trying not to blink and not to think.  I suddenly notice that the room has gone quiet, and I hear Mrs. Bryant ask, “Riley, what’s wrong?”

The class has stopped, Mrs. Bryant has focused on me, along with every face in the room.  I don’t know what’s wrong—I’ve seen the movie, it didn’t make me cry.  What’s wrong is the God damned injustice of it all, but I can’t put that into words.  I get enough flak for not doing my homework or not paying attention in class.  I can’t tell her that I’ve just finished reading a book that moved me to tears.  I put my head down, hoping she will move on, but she doesn’t.  I start heaving and sobbing uncontrollably, and in between breaths I gasp out a hurried “Nothing.”

I keep my head down, but I can feel everyone staring at me, watching.  I can’t tell her why I’m crying.  I’m not sure I can explain it to myself.

My surreptitious reading of Mrs. Bryant’s books got me through the sixth grade, and the experience encouraged me to take note of people’s bookshelves wherever I go.  A person’s books are a part of them.  Their bookshelves help to keep a lot of parts together.  The first thing I take note of when I enter someone’s office is their books.  I wonder, often, to what degree their books are ornamental.  Are they meant to convey identity?  Personal philosophy? Are they favorites or just the ones most often reached for?  I have never asked anyone, or indicated that I knew anything about their shelved books.  

When I was growing up, there was never enough room for all the books in our house.  Most bookshelves are simple affairs—a box of wood or plastic with horizontal shelves to hold the books.  Dad hung shelves on the wall for Mom using metal brackets, but she still had piles of books in the corner of their room, at the ends of the thin corridors between their queen-sized bed and the walls.  The weight of her books pushed the floor down away from the wall, leaving a small gap.  

As I neared the end of high school I started reading through her collection—she liked nonfiction, especially biographies.  If I thought one of her books was really cool, I’d try to hang on to it.  I still have her copies of Freud’s case studies, like The Wolfman and Jokes and Their Relation to the Unconscious.

I still have Mom’s copy of Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses, too.  I had figured out at a young age that not going to church meant that I was not a very respectable person, and so I was very interested in ideas and things that made church people uneasy.  I was intrigued by Rushdie’s title, and asked Mom what it was about.  “I don’t know—I couldn’t understand it,” was her reply, “but it was a big deal when it came out.”  She recalled that the radio stations in Texas had boycotted Cat Stevens’ songs because he had made statements in support of the bounty on Rushdie’s head.  Khomeini’s fatwa was enough of a reason for me to read it.

That year—my senior year—I had an American Literature class with Mrs. Sladek.  She was a short, round, dark-haired woman with intense, bulgy eyes who kept her room orderly and quiet.  Some teachers seemed more interested in social status than teaching, and Mrs. Sladek struck me as one of them.  If you didn’t go to the right church, if your family wasn’t prominent enough, if you didn’t look fashionable, she wasn’t interested in you.  She was more dismissive of me than I was used to, even for someone who rarely did his homework.

Near the end of the year, we had a lot of quiet reading time in class. One day, I pulled out Mom’s copy of The Satanic Verses, found my place—marked by the glossy red and gray jacket—and started reading. My desk was near hers, and it wasn’t long before I heard her voice: “Riley, what are you reading?”

I was excited at her interest. I’d been struggling with the book—I didn’t know much about Islam or the cultures Rushdie was writing about—but I kept at it, rereading and trying to work through it slowly. Maybe Mrs. Sladek, an English teacher, could help me understand it.

I held up the book and said, “The Satanic Verses. Have you read it?”

She scowled. “No, and I don’t think I would.”

I put the book back on my desk and kept reading, but her response stayed with me. I’d thought everyone had heard of The Satanic Verses—Mom and Dad had told me about the protests, the bounty, the boycotts of Cat Stevens. I was surprised that she hadn’t heard of it—and more surprised that a teacher would shut down a book like that without a second thought.  I suppose not everyone thinks of books in the same way.

When someone dies and the family swoops in to divvy up their stuff, I try to get their books.  When Mom’s dad died everyone fought over what to do with his things.  I took his books.  He had a lot of books about faith.  He was a Catholic, and he struggled to reconcile his religion with his politics.  The church told him that in order to be a good Christian he had to vote for the party that wanted to outlaw abortion, but he felt that it was unconscionable to vote for the Republicans.  He had a lot of books about what it means to have faith.

Uncle Elbert, on the other hand, was a Republican and lifetime member of the NRA.  He owned most of the land that butted up against Tuggle Road—all hayfields and cow pastures and hollers where the woods were left to grow because they weren’t worth turning into hayfields.  Dad bought the piece of field where we put our house from him, and, when Uncle Elbert was dying, everyone bought the fields their houses sat in from him.  They were worried that there would be a problem with his will—he had family who would be able to claim his property before any Tuggles, though I’ve never met them.  They let me take his books when he died, but everything he owned was supposed to be sold off and divvied up to this other family.

Elbert’s bookshelf, which I keep in a safe spot at the top of my stairs, is made of a knotty old cherry tree that wasn’t quite worth sawing up into boards to sell.  I never dust it, and I don’t think he did either.  There may still be dust from his house on it.  It isn’t like most bookshelves—he had made it by hand in his shop.  It’s got two boards which serve for legs that are rounded at the top and come up about waist high, one of them is so full of knots that it has started to split and separate from itself.  Between the legs run three shelves which are each made of two boards put together at a right angle.  The books rest on their sides, not quite parallel to the floor.  It’s made to hold paperbacks about the size of your hand.  Uncle Elbert had filled it with dime store westerns by Zane Grey and Louis L’Amour.  

The top shelf holds a row of my own paperbacks that just happened to fit. The rest of the collection is fragile, held together more by memory than glue. I think about those books sometimes—about the legacy Uncle Elbert left me without meaning to. Maybe I’ll explore them one day. But I don’t think it’ll be as simple as pulling one down to read—it might crumble in my hands.

[dowdicus]

I. Nothing Exists

I. NOTHING EXISTS

I remember the astonishment I felt at your interest in me.  I, a lowly worm, you a bird of paradise.  You brought a kind of lightness with you when you came into my life, weighed down as it is by mental illness and a strange kind of consciousness.  Points of light in the darkness; weekends punctuating the months with a kind of joy that is hard to find.  I told you I wanted to occupy the same physical space in the universe as you.

You left something with me when things were still good.  Something you knew, a simple card with the word “YES” written on the front; inside are affirmations that I am loved.  I put it on the table on the top of the stairs, to remind me every night when I went up to bed.  And now I wonder if I should put it away.  You tell me that I’m still loved, but it’s not the kind of love that makes me a priority or makes me feel welcome in your life.

II. EVEN IF SOMETHING EXISTS, IT CANNOT BE KNOWN.

The relationship seemed to fall into place naturally for me.  I felt understood.  We had deep conversations that felt meaningful about politics and society and finding ourselves within the moments that passed.  I felt seen.  At any point of connection I could feel how you felt about me.  Maybe I wasn’t as warm to you?

And I was insecure.  I shrunk myself.  If a text went unanswered, it meant you were annoyed with me.  It meant that my text messages were a burden.  A weight I was tying around your neck; a demand.  I saw myself, instead of making plans together, begging for time.  And I told myself it was a cruelty towards you to feel this way.  My internal dialogue scolded me for looking for ways to manipulate the situation–if I ask for some time while we talk on the phone instead of by text, it will be harder to say no.

III. EVEN IF IT CAN BE KNOWN, IT CANNOT BE COMMUNICATED

I told you recently that I had a revelation of sorts; that I was afraid to want things.  It’s more than that.  I believe, deep down, if I voice my want for something that thing will be taken away from me and the possibility will be ended.  If I want to talk to you then you will stop wanting to talk to me.  And now you don’t want to talk to me.  I remember how I felt the first time you canceled plans with me.  And the first time you told me you weren’t ready to schedule any time with me.  “You still like me though, right?” I asked.  I feel so stupid for not understanding earlier.  

I wonder now if you understand how I’m feeling.  That I am heartbroken.  Cycling.  I haven’t tried to make you aware, but surely you can tell that I’ve had a realization.  That I have spiraled a bit.  There is a cold kind of bitter anger welling in my heart–a small puddle, but it seems important to recognize.  Resentment.  I want you to call me so that I can refuse to accept the call.  This petty bitter anger comes for me too–I want to go live in a cave and punish myself for this failure.  

IV. EVEN IF IT CAN BE COMMUNICATED, IT CANNOT BE UNDERSTOOD

This feeling is hard.  It’s like I’ve been in the process of breaking up with someone for two years.  The hard part, though, is that I have been fighting against myself.  Arguing that this isn’t the case.  “She probably has a lot going on.”  I remember seeing pictures of you at the renaissance faire with other friends on your instagram.  It wounded me.  Why hadn’t you wanted to go with me?  Something from long ago eats at me, “If she wanted to spend time with you, she would make time for you.”  Why doesn’t she want to have fun with me?  A picture of you with short hair pulled the distance that had grown between us into my mind–I couldn’t ignore that you had cut your hair some time ago and that I hadn’t known.  It seemed like something I would have known much sooner just a year before.

At the end of the day the only firmament I had was that I believed I was important.  That I warranted a consideration.  But when we talked about labels and things not practically changing, it seems we meant that the status quo of the long breakup will be maintained.  I had thought it meant we were safe.  And I think back on all the times I have been inconsiderate and wonder, “What if…?”

And I want to be angry that you didn’t tell me.  I imagine your response, “We talked about not being partners anymore.” But when we became partners we said that it wasn’t changing things.  And when you dissolved the partnership, you said that it wasn’t changing things.  And I’m angry that I didn’t realize at the time we were lying to ourselves.  It did change things.  How could it not?  I felt an immediate change when you brought up the idea of being partners with me at some nice restaurant I can’t remember.  I began convincing myself immediately that nothing would change when you told me on the phone that we wouldn’t be partners anymore.  Of course things changed.  And I want you to tell me why.  And I want you to explain your reason why to my satisfaction.  And I want you to justify your explanations.  And I want you to convince me.  

I just want to occupy the same space as you, where our minds might overlap, and then I might know things to the degree I need to know them.

from Sophistry and Solipsism in the New Millennium

[dowdicus]

Why Publish?

To be a writer To write professionally To make a buck

To prove that I am a writer

For recognition For validity For an audience For a legacy

To teach To castigate

To have something to take home and say, “I’m better than the person who left here.”

For competition For dreams

For disillusionment

For posterity

Because thousands of shitty novels are published every day, and I need to prove to someone that I can write a shitty novel.

[dowdicus]

Good Workers

“We want our students to be good workers.” Administration proclaims

But the liberal arts are not suited To producing good workers

Dreamers, probably Rebels, maybe Disappointed idealists, surely

But good workers do not come From interrogating humanity

Let the admins proclaim what they will. I want my students to fight.

[dowdicus]

Re: Meetings

Subject: Availability Poll If everyone could please Respond to the poll By Friday—end of day. Let us know your availability.

Subject: Quick Reminder And please, Stop using ‘Reply All.’

Subject: Poll Results Are In The only shared times Are two p.m. Tuesday Or eight a.m. Wednesday.

Subject: Dietary Preferences Make sure you respond to Susan. Vegan? No gluten? She’s ordering lunch For everyone.

Subject: Update: Tuesday Won’t Work We’ll have to meet On Wednesday At eight a.m.

Subject: Meeting Confirmation When you arrive, Please sign in— To document your presence At this critical discussion.

[dowdicus]

Lennie

We met because the woman who owned you Had to let you go. I sat on the grass with you and held you And as you realized you were being left with strangers you struggled against me. I brought you home and you glued yourself to the window, Heartbroken.

I comforted you, and gave you a box to improve your vantage point, But you had no way of understanding what had happened or why.

Yesterday I left for work And you came to the window to watch me leave. When I came home a few hours later you whined and pawed at me and jumped In my lap. Maybe you thought I wouldn’t return? You danced for cookies and I gave them to you.

I sometimes think about your memory of the woman who called you Remington. I remember her crying as she left you with me.

You seem happy here, and I consider How a dog goes through life without words And must find contentment in the world as she finds it.

Language is a hell of a thing.

I would like to be able to tell you that I love you, So I throw your ball, and give you another cookie, and worry how you’re feeling Whenever I’m not home.

from Sophistry and Solipsism in the New Millennium

[dowdicus]

BRCM Co.

One Morning as the sun came up And the jungle camps were dampened Up the track came a New York lawyer He was a business champion “I’ve found me a land that’s far away Where no title can be counted. It’ll all be mine, I’ll lay my claim On the Big Rock Candy Mountains.”

On my Big Rock Candy Mountains You can pay by week or night You can use your credit card Or a cheque if you can write Where the railroad bulls are paid real well To make sure you don’t ride

On the trains that bring my cigarette trees To the factory where my workers bleed

At the BRCM Comp’ny

On my Big Rock Candy Mountains All the cops drive big ol’ tanks And I can call the National Guard If my workers sleep too late All these shiftless idlers Should profit me or die

I let loose the jerk who invented work Gave him a gun and I called him “son”

At the BRCM Comp’ny

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains All the hobos tried to fight But they didn’t have no tools or guns And right is made by might I locked them all up in my jail And gave them work release

Now they slave away for a dollar a day While I rest at ease with my dollar bill trees

At the BRCM Comp’ny

from Sophistry and Solipsism in the New Millennium

[dowdicus]

Ode to Frank

Frank, One would not guess Behind the bulk and the bark And the large muzzle (that isn’t so full of teeth) The kindness with which you treat others.

Frank, Your clumsy leaps and bounds Are joy and youth and sweet  Beams of sunlight cascading over a weedless garden full of ripened fruit And your shy, syrupy eyes Are lakes of pure innocence.

Frank, I cannot come any closer to God Than when you meet my gaze, And, wondering what the world is to you, I feel your soft velvety ears And the weight of your body as you lean against me.

from Sophistry and Solipsism in the New Millennium