GOTTA BE GAY

They changed the rules today.
Fancy that, it's now a law, you have to be gay!

No more het marriages, one woman, one man.
It's same sex or no sex, mixed marriages are banned.

Oh, exceptions are made, children are sacred, it's no longer our 'right'
to reproduce blindly, wantonly with little foresight

to how many humans this planet can feed.
Law says you now need a license to breed!

And a phalanx of friends to speak for the couple,
attest to their character, help them in trouble.

These friends must be gay with no babes of their own,
to hinder their support if the couple needs some.

What an idea! Has it been tried before?
We can always go back to famine and war

to check this flood of people and cars
like a plague of locusts making Earth look like Mars.

I don't know, it's not in my history books.
Hand in hand with my girlfriend, I get funny looks

from those who believe 'man shall have dominion'
over what but a half-dead planet, if you want my opinion.

Dominion means only one's home is one's castle.
But with so little left soon, it won't be a big hassle.

It'll probably feel strange for most hets to go gay.
They might feel like the gays did . . .yesterday.

Just when I was getting sick of being queer,
they've gone and made it mandatory, oh dear.

I could leave the country, it's not too late.
The entire rest of the world is still straight.

I wish it had been voluntary, more like a vacation.
Wouldn't it be nice to take a trip to Queer Nation?

It's just too bad they had to make it a law
instead of allowing the choice to all

letting religion handle morals and care for our souls
& let law handle freedom, peace, fairness for all.

We all need each other, of that you can be certain
or for life on earth, you might as well draw the curtain.

But how many do we need, what's the ratio: gay to straight?
Or must we forever curb our population through , , , , , hate?

How many children to each couple allowed?
I don't know, I'm floundering, don't have the answer,
just that our race is resembling a cancer.

All the years of evolution prove the sexes need to be mixed.
Anything else is just cunts and chicks, cocks and dicks.

So, that's it. That's the news for today.
You might not be happy. but you have to be gay.!

HUMANISM

The man flies in his thundering, metallic suit.
The bird chose hers of feathers.

The men construct the concrete cities;
the ants make theirs of dirt.

Assisted by two tons of gear and a host of Sherpas
the women stand atop Mt. Everest,
as migrating geese glide silently over their heads.

Steel clad humans race the streets,
while a beetle's iridescent carapace doubles as wings.

What is thought to be human so often mimics animals.

What is it to be a human, outstanding in your field
of being human?
Meditate on it; ceaselessly, ceaselessly,
Do not take your next step
without the desire
to know what it is.
Your world is waiting.

HUMANITY’S CALAMITY

It was the last gasps of the 2 billion animal individuals that die every day to feed us,
A holocaust not noted by voracious humanity.
It was the screams of children, beaten and abused by their caregivers.
It was the moans of those diseased from air polluted by our industriousness,
and water choked with chemicals, feces and urine of industrial farming.
It was the cries of children dying overseas for lack of food and medicine because of our
shameful embargoes and their own leaders who prefer to buy weapons before
milk.
It was the wails in the countries that kill their own people, torture their own people, then get bombed by us to teach them to be good to one another.
Even the relative minutiae depresses me:
sidewalks cannot accommodate wheelchairs,
and are littered with refuse,
and garbage cans and cars block pedestrian use
and
oh, we think we’re hot, hotter than this hell that begot and holds us.
Are we not the ones around which the sun revolves?
Galileo, Copernicus notwithstanding
Yet, too, are we not all medieval Catholics at heart, the lot of us
still willing to put a stake through the heart of the unknown enemy,
put a steak on the grill or
burn a witch at the stake
one mistake after another?
It was the war.
He was the pilot.
They were the bombed.
Pronouns hung in the balance.
When it came from afar, from the air, everything changed.
O, they hurt no more.
O, they hurt worse.
Someone was happy. Someone was sand.
Favors and flames were granted.
As earth turns and burns, tumbling inside God’s palm, learning to share.
6 billion and counting, but only 2 sexes here,
that have to come to, two
gether gather
to continue
as we only go forwards towards forever together.
As I, a she, did not want anyone over me
like an earth devoid of
sky to hold my mater in and shield me from the cold of space;
he was in turn, minus matter, free to float, call him ether
jealous of my mass, my solidity, fearful of that which I was.
I held him down he said, while he poured and thundered on me.
An evolution, in revolution from mater to ether, ether to matter,
for both or either to matter.

I, OXYMORON or THE ONLY TRUTH, I KNOW

Here is truth:
Truth cannot be told.
Why?
Be cause:
Truth is big, really, really big. How big?

Suppose this were true:
Humans are co-creators with God.
We know this isn't true, don't we? God created everything,
even us. Not us.
But, just suppose: Humans hold up half the sky,
half the heavens, half the sun and stars. We are half
the effort to keep the vacuum of space from sucking
us into blackness; or the incredible
lightness of air from crushing us, air weighing in at
14.7lbs./sq. in. etc.
How?
prayers, worship, faith, love, belief, work.
We're here to think it true,
although not through.
What would we do?
We would test it. Let me repeat that: WE WOULD TEST IT.
We would, of course! humans would test that
supposition with the necessary concomitant disastrous
result.
So.
If YOU were God, would YOU really trust
US?
With
THE TRUTH?
Or rather couch your instructions to us in elaborate
strategies to guarantee our quasi-compliance.
Ignorance might not be bliss,
but perchance necessity.

THE OTHER SIDE OF SNOW

Once upon a time, I wrote of snow. I will bore others elsewhere with that, but for now: a long spiel referencing, naturally, the ‘whiteness’, how it covers up our messes temporarily in transcendent, homogenous beauty. But. Once upon a time, the water lines in my trailer froze. I resourcefully melted snow to flush my toilet. We should all at least once in our lives melt that delirious whiteness. It was so full of dirt, mucousy, floating fibrils, scum rising to the top that to think I had on younger occasions put that in my mouth makes me want to gag at the thought. A later perspective has me appreciating our immune system!
The 60’s were full of people who thought they knew what they were saying and doing and they said, comically so they thought; “Don’t eat yellow snow!” But that is a red herring; a partial truth to mislead you into thinking white snow is edible! DO NOT be fooled by the whiteness! EAT NO SNOW!
Almost everything has at least 3 sides and I can tell a few of them, one above, the other elsewhere and here’s a third: sometimes I imagine a chorus of souls that watch and attend us earthlings awaiting their ride on this whirled palace. I have to say, really, that art makes of here what it is not, ignoring blood red of tooth and claw in favor of “love”, “beauty”, “courage”, “honesty” etc ad nausea. Sometimes I want to warn those attending souls that would be born: don’t do it, it’s a trap! I imagine some vague Star Trek-like show where the prisoners are forced to send for reinforcements/rescuers so that their captors would have more slaves or fodder. Or maybe a scary movie where the entire audience cued by common sense and foreboding music wants to shout at the naïf on screen, “Don’t open the door!” or “Don’t answer the phone!” You get it. Yet mute we sit watching the horror unfold because sometimes, just sometimes life is good. Maybe 2% of our awake time. But it’s enough. Today 98% of the people scowled or ignored me, but 1 pretty woman smiled. One handsome man held the door. Though all my friends will die, as has most of my family, today no one I know died. It’s a good day. Though 25,000 people will starve to death today, I will not. Etc ad finitum and we keep paddling our little boat called the “It Could Be Worse!” or in my case “The Other Side of Snow”.

MAD COW BLUES

Don't walk on the grass.
There is no sidewalk.
Don't walk on the grass.
There is no sidewalk.
Don't walk on the grass!
There is no sidewalk!
What a zoo, what a zoo, what a zoo.
Notazoo, notazoo, notazoo.
Istooazoo, istooazoo, isazu, isuzu, isuzu.
Walk with the cars, you are a car, walk with the cars, you are a car.
Nonsense, no sense, in no sense are you a car.
Isazo, isuzu transporting, trainspotting,
you are a car, transporting me.
The cars live, the cars live, the cows live up to their
knees in filth, you eat the cows you eat the filth,
feces mucked about, we muck about.
I am loosing my mind. I am a mad cow up to my knees
in filth.
Hear the roses?
See the breeze?
Feel the scent?
ground to ground, ground to ground, ground to ground up
burger is King! King I tell you!
Nothing makes sense,
nothing makes sense,
nothing makes sense.
Chaos ordering order in the backstitch of a tapestry.
Knot here, knot there, knot, knot, knotknotknot, here a knotknotknot
there a knot, everywhere a knotknotknot.
Will the tapestry PLEASE come to order!?
Cut down the trees to wipe our ass,
cut down the trees to wipe our ass,
cut down the trees to wipe our ass,
how fitting, how appropriate the the the
pine, tulip, oak, mahogony, sycamore sick of it
toilet seats and toilet tissue issue
from the grandeur. Well it fits, it fits our
butt, it's round
cut, clump, pulp, bleach, stretch, roll,
I wipe your ass with my heartwood, bend over
human, stay clean.



As I live and breathe:
as I live, I breathe:
as I breathe I live, the lungs of our
world wipe our ass, the leaves giveth and the leaves
taketh away.
The leaves are living;
the leaves are leaving;
no, not yet, soon, soon.
It took awhile, it took time, it, it, it, took, took,
took, stole
time, time, time.
There is no time!
Why do you keep calling time, time?!
It's time out and we're frozen in place.
Issue, issue, issue,
words to make sense is a phallacy,
words do not sense make,
sense is sense,
get the sense out of words and feel your sense.
The ocean smiles and waves at me and I wave back,
happy to see, happy to see the sea.
I come to the edge, no
the cow does not to the beach go, oh, no. Moo.
up to your knees, down on your knees,
mad cow, bad cow, sad cow.
make no sense, make burgers
to the feed lot, not on top
on their knees,
strangled, tangled in chains
the filth up my nose,
the feces in my nose,
I cry to no one's pause in the all of it.
Sky beckons, fear reckons, the reckoning
my place assured, under your bun, well done,
medium rare, eat this is my body, drink this
is your blood.
now go home to your children and your children's
children playing up to their knees.
The seas have no worries, all is divined.
Sure the cows would rule the world if they got the
chance.
chickens likewise,
H. pylori bacterium likewise
fill-in-the-blank likewise.




We are on the food chain, maintaining our pace,
preserving our race,
running in place,
terminus,
speed bump,
exit left,
gnawing off our own leg to escape the trap.
Well, who cares. Maybe the mad mcCow cares. The mad
cow is on my mind, maybe in my mind, who knows,
who cares.
Popsicles anyone? Bicycles anyone? Air anyone?
I am happy, happy, happy in my madness.
I am singing, singing, singing in my cage
Death is the only way to end(end your)ure life.
I am just jealous,
that I can't have all I see,
resent your purchasing me
Sometimes you're the diner,
sometimes you're the dinner.
Fete' is fate.

THE LATE NIGHT RIDE OF THE PICNIC TABLE

Everything I see, hear, touch, read reminds me of an incident, lover, friend, relative, no longer in my life. Thus is everything an arrow tinged with sadness spent to my interior.
There was a picnic table at the beginning of my walk from a motel in Blanco, TX. to the deli that always brought up a particular memory. I have seen picnic tables before. I am now 2500 miles and 29 years from the one I saw at the side of a railroad track in a small, woodsy town where my lover and I had just rented a house nearby. We decided our backyard, but briefly subjected to our ministrations but looking all the better for them, would look even better with a picnic table! As feminist lesbians we were trying to carve out our niche within society. Newly graduated from college, and embarking on new career paths in a new location, the world could be our oyster! And did it not just hand us a picnic table!?
We set out in the dark of an evening, slightly exhilarated by our rambunctiousness, slightly guilty about what seemed like stealing even though we reckoned the table had to be abandoned. Why else sitting by the side of little used tracks?
The table was very . . .very . . . VERY . . . heavy. Its heaviness increased on the trip back to our little house with each step. But we lived only a block away and finally made it. Back we went for the benches that almost seemed not worth the effort at that point, but would complete our task. They were heavy too, though not nearly as much as the table, and we were sweating heavily in the cool evening.
Set in place, the next day revealed the table to be pure redwood! Of course it would have to be for an outdoor table; this explained its weight, and sturdiness. What a lovely addition to our new place!
Oddly, come the weekend, we were working in the yard and, glancing down the fences and yards that separated our place from the tracks, we saw a group of men gathered where the table had been, standing around scratching their heads. We glanced only briefly, guiltily at each other then dismissed the sight unspoken as having no relevance to us.
I can hardly see a picnic table to this day without thinking of that instance. Because: I saw another picnic table, by the side of a railroad track, solidly holding up the lunches and bodies of a nearby work crew. It’s some kind of tradition I guess, a lunch spot for the crews that work the tracks. I hate to figure that she and I contributed to the chains I see leading to concrete set to the side of the ground by these units and wrapped around and through the solid redwood but of course we did.
I’m really sorry, guys. Honest. We thought it just fell there for us to take advantage of.
As I finish writing this I pick up “In the Face of Death” and read, “Add to this the sense of being at the center of action, especially obvious in the case of Trotsky when, from his legendary railroad car, he built and commanded the Red Army, leading it to its final victory.” Well, of course we weren’t in Russia. But Peter Noll continues: “The sense of participating actively in history, the primitive joy of combat and victory leave no room for thoughts straying into the more distant future. For this more than any other reason, all revolutions tend to reach goals that are quite different from their original vision.”
I would have to agree. We thought ourselves revolutionary, two women revolting against our assigned gender roles. The revolution did stray. In this instance into common thievery.

Why Did You Come Back

Now that I know you will never ask me. Or you. Or you.

I've come back to die.

I've come back to watch everyone else die.

I've come back because we all have to die and I want to watch to make sure you're gone.

I've no idea.

Why not just ask me to stay?

Because I had to.

Because home is the place where when you have to go there, they have to take you in.

Because it's just a visit. . . . .

Because I loved. . . . . 

The devil made me do it.

I had run out of running.  

Why not ask why you never left. . . . .

Because four is sometimes equal to two plus two. . . .

Because I still don't have the good sense you never thought I had.

Why did I ever leave. . . .

To cultivate apathy. . . . 

Just to leave again and pick afresh the wound of our parting. . . . .

Because I could.

TALE OF THE SALT CELLARS

A long, long time ago, when I was about 10, my mother married a man we can call Brownie. I was one of the witnesses at their marriage at a J.P.’s. They bought a house on South 11th in the same area where my mother’s father had built so many houses though this was not one of them. It cost $7500! I’d be curious what it would sell for today except that it is razed, as are most of the decrepit edifices in which I spent my childhood.
Shortly after we moved in I noticed some strange medicine in the dining room. I asked mom about it and at first she said something about Brownie’s recurring bouts of malaria. I guess that would explain his lying, sweating in their bed quite a bit. But later she revealed it to be Antabuse. Perhaps today they would force it on one, via patches or subdural pumps but in those days it was voluntary and it didn’t take long for Brownie to stop taking it. As I look back and never noted before, mom was remarkably sober during this time. It may have been an effort to support Brownie in his efforts.
But I get ahead of myself. Before the drunken fights, before he fell off the antabuse wagon, before the missing cat, before the abuse, before the dog, before I almost died, twice, before the attempted molestation, before the police came, before my mother thought I wanted to kill her, before the men in the white coats came, before all the after, mom started setting a table and cooking for the 3 of us as I had never seen, as I could not remember our life with my father before their divorce.
It was summer and she brought out a couple of place set items with which I was not at all familiar: corn holders and saltcellars. A set for each of us. The corn holders were the ubiquitous plastic, yellow, pronged affairs still popular. But saltcellars have fallen from favor. This set was plastic also: a tiny recessed area for the salt, surrounded by an ornate, flowery lip and each with its tiny spoon, one color for each color of the rainbow. For whatever reason it is the latter that stick in my memory as symbolizing so much of the civility, the domesticity, the gentility, the femininity, the normalcy etc. that my mother wished to evidence, all of which would be eclipsed by the fights, the drinking, the abuse.
Perhaps in some distant universe far, far away, in some unknown future, my mother will stand beside a dining room table in a modest house, a table set with corn holders and salt cellars, a gentle husband, a responsive, intelligent, comely child or children and be happy. But not in this one. No, never, not ever, ever, ever, ever in this one.
Of all the memories of that place, and there are many, it’s the cellars that bring me always to tears