“Ozark Elegy”

For my father
Six scenes from a funeral

1

“Our story’s not a cypher, Jude,” Dad said. “It’s written in the clay of this hill, and on the stones planted in it.”

We stood, together, leaning on our shovel handles, staring down into the red-black dirt of J. Robert Meguiar’s grave, the graveside service tent still erect behind us. We were the only people left in the Mount Horeb cemetery, the other mourners having retired to the little, white, cinder block church for which the cemetery has its name. After each member of the family had ritualistically tossed a shovel of dirt into the grave, they had all headed for the chapel, where the few remaining Mount Horeb members were serving dinner. All, that is, except for my father, who stayed behind, to spread more clay upon his father’s resting place.

A sparrow flew down and pecked at the upturned soil. A burst of winter wind blew in, and the sparrow flew away. A flurry of snow began to fall, resting on my father’s thick, black suit. He adjusted his gloves and shoveled more dirt; I followed his lead. “Grandpa was a good man,” I said. “Always kind to us kids. A passionate preacher. A loving husband. A peacemaker.”

“He was those things. For better and, sometimes, for worse. And he was my father.” He paused to catch his breath.

“Mark my words, son. When I pass from this earth, I’ll join him and these other sons and daughters of mountain men. I’ll sleep here, until the Judgement, next to my kin. And you—you and your brothers. You boys, specifically, had better take care of me, take care of all the funeral arrangements, and after, too. Else I’ll come back and haunt you! Of that you can be sure.”

I chuckled a little, not sure of how serious he might be. “Yes, of course, you know we will take care of everything, especially Shep and I.”

Where would I end up buried? Here? In the city where I had moved with my wife and children for work?

“Great-Great-Grandpa’s up there near the center, right?”

“He is. And my grandfather is halfway down.”

We stopped our work and bent back up. “That’s enough, son.” We leaned our shovels against the nearby chairs.

The wind was picking up, and we stood, solemn, for another minute or so. The cold dried out a tear or two on my cheek.

I hadn’t cried like I thought I would, like I thought I should. I didn’t feel I had mourned appropriately. Whatever that should mean. Dad showed no sign of tears, but his wrinkles cut more deeply than ever into his face.

We walked toward the chapel, to eat, but Dad did not follow me inside. “I’ll stay out here for another minute.”

As we paused at the doors, we looked down the hollow to where the muddy water of Bank Branch had run for one-hundred, two-hundred, three-hundred years. . . I longed to follow it, just then, and I think he did too.

2

The static of electric heat against my face surprised me. I had, quite unrealistically, expected the warmth of the wood stove Mount Horeb used to heat their tiny sanctuary when I was a kid. They had not lit that wood stove, though, for many years now. It stood ceremoniously in the corner.

Grandma Meguiar sat, hunched over, at the front of the church by the mourner’s bench, in her wheelchair. I made a beeline for her and hugged her; she hugged me feebly back. She was so frail now, and she had never been much of a hugger.

“Grandpa was proud of you,” she said.

I hugged her again. “Thank you, Grandma.”

“I’ll be gone, too, before next Spring.”

“I love you, Grandma. I’m sorry I haven’t been down to see you more often. I need to show you the kids. And read you a poem I wrote for Grandpa, here a while ago.”

The tables in the tacked-on back room were already full, so I ended up balancing my plate and sweet tea on my lap, in a hard wood pew. On one side of me was my wealthy Uncle Priest, a Missouri state legislator now, though he claimed he had never planned to be. On the other side was Cousin Leviticus, an enlisted man in the Army—which had been his greatest ambition for as long as I could remember—stationed in Fort Leonard Wood; he was getting out of there as soon as they would let him go.

“I’m sorry we lost J.R.,” Uncle Priest said. “He used to be like a father to me.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

“D’you bring your guitar?” Leviticus asked.

“No, but I can get Dad’s.”

“Do, then! I’ll be over at your brother Shep’s place later tonight. Come over, and we’ll drink a beer and jam!”

“Hey, now!” I laughed. “You know you aren’t supposed to talk about drinkin’ here. We’re all teetotalers, remember?” Uncle Priest thought that was funny. Grandma, a few feet away now, did not.

I knew I would go by my brother’s place later, play some music, talk awhile, drink a few beers. If only because there is little in this world that comes second for me, in my mind and my soul and my blood, to the natural things known well by my family and our closest friends. Even though I no longer live in these hills, having moved away for my family’s sake. Even though I have not shared in my people’s sacred secrets, through heaven and hell, in quite the same ways they have done. Forever there remains an overwhelming draw, almost irresistible.

I happened to look out the window into the cemetery and saw Dad back at Grandpa’s graveside, peering down at his Bible. The snow clouds kept rolling in.

3

I called my wife as I drove from Mount Horeb toward the old family farm, just down the road from Grandpa and Grandma’s house—which Dad and Mom were completely renovating and remodeling, from the boards outward, while Grandma was in the nursing home. The snow was beginning to fall more steadily now as I headed out onto the gravel road. The sun was beginning to burn out behind the hills.

“Hey, honey, just wanted to check up on you while I’m driving back to Mom and Dad’s.”

“How’d the service go? I’m sorry I can’t be there.”

“It’s ok. Pisses me off your boss didn’t make it easier on you to come. And I’m sorry you’re home by yourself with the kids. And little man on the way.”

“Yeah, these days I just expect hospital management to be kinda shitty about these things. And the kids are all right. Mom’s looking after them while I help out at the new ICU.”

“Ok, good. Service went well. You should have heard Uncle Jake preach though. He was just supposed to read the obituary, but he ended up hoopin’ and hollerin’, and he was preachin’ like he was at the Brush Arbor meetings. I was surprised—shouldn’t ‘a’ been.”

“Hey, the road noise is super loud on your end. Everything ok?”

“Yeah, it’s just these old goat paths.” That and the fact my Subaru Forester’s bumper was barely hanging on, thanks to getting rear-ended on the way down here—something about which I had not yet informed her.

Suddenly, I dropped the phone, and my car skidded around on the loose gravel in the road. It was spinning out of control, but I righted it in the nick of time, before I hit the brushy roadside. A bald eagle—with clean, ivory plumage and a shining, yellow beak—spread its impressive wingspan and flew up, from some roadkill, to a low-hanging oak branch. I hadn’t expected it, and I hadn’t driven these treacherous, gravel roads in a long time. But the eagle was a powerful omen to me, and of course I couldn’t help but think of how much Grandpa used to love those birds.

“This ole place is gonna give way to glory,” he would sing, “and like an eagle, I’ll take to the sky.”

A week later, my first day back at work, I just happened to look up from my computer, and what should I see, out through the window, but another bald eagle, of the same maturity, bold against an overcast sky. In an area where I had never seen an eagle before. Awful hard not to be superstitious.

4

I had thought a lot about the Meguiar family name, on the nine-hour drive down to my Ozark Mountain home, from the place I had left it for, ten years ago. In the Middle Ages, we were an Irish clan, out of modern-day County Fermanagh. I’ve never been.

Apparently, we had ruled Fermanagh, from our Enniskillen castle, from the 1200s to the 1600s. Our Princes of Fermanagh were inaugurated on the magnificent summit of Mount Cuilcagh, and that was the way, until the royal clan ended up on the wrong side of the English, after, perhaps foolishly, taking bold steps to protect and provide for their country’s people and, definitely foolishly, stirring up Irish countryside sentiments. That’s the side of the story I know, anyway.

As the English were coming, the King of Fermanagh sent part of the clan into Scotland, along with some of the family’s riches, to preserve at least a remnant of the family. That’s how we came to be known as “Scotch-Irish,” which is what my grandfather always called us. Our family name at that time was Mag Uidhir—Son of Odhar—Odhar meaning “Sallow.” I spent several years thinking it was “Swallow,” the bird, not “Sallow,” and I must admit I still prefer my misreading.

Justitia et fortitudo invincibilia sunt—That was our family motto: Justice and fortitude are invincible.

5

I pulled up to Shep’s place, a mobile home a quarter mile from my parents’. My car was making an odd knocking sound, but I couldn’t quite pinpoint it. The snow was falling faster.

I knocked on the wobbly door, avoiding scattered peeling spots, and my brother opened it. Four of our cousins and six family friends were all stuffed in there too, drinking and getting rowdy. There was a faint smell of weed, but, mostly, it was cheap alcohol and stale cigarillos.

“Come on in and have a beer!”

“Thanks, brother!”

I shut the door gently, but the wind whipped it back against the wall. “Where d’ya think y’are, a barn?” someone yelled.

“I might would prefer a barn!” One of our cousins. Not like his place was any better.

Cousin Leviticus, at the end of a couch, said, “Bring your dad’s guitar?”

“No, I didn’t have time to get it.”

“You mean you forgot! Well, here, your brother’s got an extra!” He shoved it into my hand and grabbed his banjo. My brother shoved a beer into my hand, and we were off.

We played “Faded Love,” and I sang “Wayfaring Stranger.” My brother joined us on the mandolin. We played “Blackberry Blossom,” and Leviticus sang “How Mountain Girls Can Love.” I was rusty, doing my best to keep up. My fingers hurt, but to play again felt exciting.

“You used to be so good!” Leviticus teased me. “What the hell happened?”

The night went on, everyone got drunker and drunker, and louder and louder. I looked across the room at my brother. He grinned at me. I smiled too and raised my Coors to him; he raised a Bud back to me. Then he launched into an impression of Uncle Jake’s preaching.

“One night—huh!—I believe the Gospel was preached—huh!—the Word fell upon his heart—huh!—and he was held accountable for one thing—huh!—and that was Adam’s sin—huh!—and when it fell down upon his body—huh!—he knew that he must repent and be born again and make his election sure—huh!”

He screamed it, just like Uncle Jake, and I nearly fell to the floor laughing, tears streaming out of my eyes. Jake’s son was there though, and he did not take kindly to my brother’s mockery. He launched out of his chair, and, pretty soon, the whole place was in an uproar. Laughing, but not wanting to get caught up in this, I gave Leviticus back the guitar and snuck out the door. He followed me to smoke a cigarette.

We shivered in the cold. I wanted to bum a smoke off him but didn’t ask. “Why haven’t you guys been back much? We’d love to see you,” he said.

I lowered my head a little, pulled my jacket tighter around me, and threw my beer can onto a pile of them on the porch. “Things have been so busy with the kids and work. . . We’re gonna start coming back more often.”

“We’ll see!” he said. “Hopefully what we’ll see is more of ya’!”

“Same here.”

“Oh, by the way, I’m goin’ duck hunting tomorrow morning. Wanna join me?”

“That sounds great. Do you have a shotgun I can borrow?”

“Sure do! Bring your Dad with you too, and I’ll tell Shep.”

When I got to my car, it wouldn’t start. Damn it. I might not be able to hide this whole accident thing until I get home after all. Not wanting to mess with the car in the snow, I turned toward my parents’ house on foot, trudging.

6

I staggered a bit, coming in the door, and I knocked the snow off my shoes, losing my balance a couple times but succeeding. Dad sat at the kitchen table, sober-faced. In front of him, he had his Bible and a glass of red wine; he was puffing at a briar pipe. I sat down on the bench opposite him.

“We’ve got some rye in the pantry,” he said. I went over, grabbed the whiskey and two glasses, and sat down again.

“None for me, thanks. I’m going to stick with this particular wine for now.”

I poured a couple fingers. “The service was good today. There’s something—I don’t know . . . cathartic? conclusive?—about a funeral service for a man of character like Grandpa was. Uncle Jake’s obituary reading. . . haha! Well, I haven’t heard hellfire-and-brimstone preaching like that in a while! And your, well, your sermon, that was good. It honored him. And it was good to see that place packed out the way it was, too.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, Jake is something else. I don’t quite preach like that anymore, and I don’t know that it was completely appropriate today, but I know Grandpa would have at least of somewhat appreciated it.”

My mind was hazy, but I was trying to have serious thoughts, and bond with Dad. “There’s something different about the preaching I grew up around here. A passion that is missing at other churches, at least the ones where I live now. When I’ve gone.”

“Oh, son, that may be a good thing for us, or it may not, I’m not sure. Passion isn’t always a good replacement for some things. . .” He stopped to take a long pull on his pipe. “What I do know is this—about myself: I was raised to be a farmer and a hillbilly, by mountain men who understood this country and her harsh demands. . . We piled rocks beside long ditches, and those ditches helped us feed our starved fields. . . All the clay in this land makes it hard to grow things here. . .” He hesitated, took another puff, blew out the smoke, carefully. “All that means something to me. . .” Another pause. “At church, growing up, I learned about Jesus and the Word of God. . . But those men taught me something more—yes, about religion, too—as we worked the land. And as we tried to serve God together.”

I leaned backward, rocking the bench, trying to figure what he meant. “I remember picking and piling rocks too,” I said. “Always hated it, but I did always like looking at the fossils. The rocks in this area have a lot of ‘em! Fossils. I was just recently talking with a co-worker of mine about how scientists say there once was a gigantic lake here, in the prehistoric times, and that’s why there are so many.” I knew he did not like that explanation.

Dad stepped away from the table to use the restroom. While he was gone, I reached across to his Bible and turned it toward me. The front cover came open, and I saw that he had scribbled some words inside it, and had retraced them:

When my cup is passed to me,
When my time on Earth is done,
When they lower me, remind them
I was just my fathers’ son.

I sat quietly, letting the alcohol wear off a little on my brain. And I began to sob.

“Ozark Elegy” originally appeared in VoegelinView. I have also recorded a podcast reading of the short story on The Flummoxed Podcast, and it appears in my chapbook collection of short fiction, Ozark Son, which came out this month from Bottlecap Press.

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“We come to the arena uncalled, to seek our fortune and hazard disgrace. That is the game, and those are the rules.” — Walter Hill

When it comes to the subject of arts criticism and critics, there has been much ink spilled, and there is still much left to be spilled. However, for me, there are two definite short passages of writing that I hold as authoritative: one by Samuel Johnson (on the attitude a writer ought to have toward criticism, praise, and glory), the other by Friedrich Nietzsche (on how the critic ought to go about his work). The two of these great writers lay out a way of thinking about criticism in which the arts are truly taken seriously.

First, Samuel Johnson, from his The Rambler series of essays: essay no. 93, published February 5, 1751

“The Prejudices and Caprices of Criticism”

More safely truth to urge her claim presumes,
On names now found alone on books and tombs.
— Juvenal, Satires, i. 170

There are few books on which more time is spent by young students than on treatises which deliver the characters of authors; nor any which oftener deceive the expectation of the reader, or fill his mind with more opinions which the progress of his studies and the increase of his knowledge oblige him to resign.

Adrien Baillet, in his catalogue raisonné in thirty-five volumes, has introduced his collection of the decisions of the learned, by an enumeration of the prejudices which mislead the critic, and raise the passions in rebellion against the judgment. His catalogue, though large, is imperfect; and who can hope to complete it? The beauties of writing have been observed to be often such as cannot in the present state of human knowledge be evinced by evidence, or drawn out into demonstrations; they are therefore wholly subject to the imagination, and do not force their effects upon a mind pre-occupied by unfavorable sentiments, nor overcome the counteraction of a false principle or of stubborn partiality.

To convince any man against his will is hard, but to please him against his will is justly pronounced by Dryden to be above the reach of human abilities. Interest and passion will hold out long against the closest siege of diagrams and syllogisms, but they are absolutely impregnable to imagery and sentiment; and will for ever bid defiance to the most powerful strains of Virgil or Homer, though they may give way in time to the batteries of Euclid or Archimedes.

In trusting therefore to the sentence of a critic, we are in danger not only from that vanity which exalts writers too often to the dignity of teaching what they are yet to learn, from that negligence which sometimes steals upon the most vigilant caution, and that fallibility to which the condition of nature has subjected every human understanding; but from a thousand extrinsic and accidental causes, from every thing which can excite kindness or malevolence, veneration or contempt.

Many of those who have determined with great boldness upon the various degrees of literary merit, may be justly suspected of having passed sentence, as Seneca remarks of Claudius, “When only one part of a thing is heard,/It is often as if nothing has been heard at all,” without much knowledge of the cause before them: for it will not easily be imagined of the censures and critics Langbaine, Borrichius, or Rapin, that they had very accurately perused all the books which they praise or censure: or that, even if nature and learning had qualified them for judges, they could read for ever with the attention necessary to just criticism. Such performances, however, are not wholly without their use; for they are commonly just echoes to the voice of fame, and transmit the general suffrage of mankind when they have no particular motives to suppress it.

Critics, like the rest of mankind, are very frequently misled by interest. The bigotry with which editors regard the authors whom they illustrate or correct, has been generally remarked. Dryden was known to have written most of his critical dissertations only to recommend the work upon which he then happened to be employed: and Joseph Addison is suspected to have denied the expediency of poetical justice, because his own play, Cato^, was condemned to perish in a good cause.

There are prejudices which authors, not otherwise weak or corrupt, have indulged without scruple; and perhaps some of them are so complicated with our natural affections, that they cannot easily be disentangled from the heart. Scarce any can hear with impartiality a comparison between the writers of his own and another country; and though it cannot, I think, be charged equally on all nations, that they are blinded with this literary patriotism, yet there are none that do not look upon their authors with the fondness of affinity, and esteem them as well for the place of their birth, as for their knowledge or their wit. There is, therefore, seldom much respect due to comparative criticism, when the competitors are of different countries, unless the judge is of a nation equally indifferent to both. The Italians could not for a long time believe, that there was any learning beyond the mountains; and the French seem generally persuaded, that there are no wits or reasoners equal to their own. I can scarcely conceive that if Scaliger, the Italian scholar, had not considered himself as allied to Virgil, by being born in the same country, he would have found his works so much superior to those of Homer, or have thought the controversy worthy of so much zeal, vehemence, and acrimony.

There is, indeed, one prejudice, and only one, by which it may be doubted whether it is any dishonor to be sometimes misguided. Criticism has so often given occasion to the envious and ill-natured of gratifying their malignity, that some have thought it necessary to recommend the virtue of candor without restriction, and to preclude all future liberty of censure. Writers possessed with this opinion are continually enforcing civility and decency, recommending to critics the proper diffidence of themselves, and inculcating the veneration due to celebrated names.

I am not of opinion that these professed enemies of arrogance and severity have much more benevolence or modesty than the rest of mankind; or that they feel in their own hearts, any other intention than to distinguish themselves by their softness and delicacy. Some are modest because they are timorous, and some are lavish of praise because they hope to be repaid.

There is indeed some tenderness due to living writers, when they attack none of those truths which are of importance to the happiness of mankind, and have committed no other offence than that of betraying their own ignorance or dullness. I should think it cruelty to crush an insect who had provoked me only by buzzing in my ear; and would not willingly interrupt the dream of harmless stupidity, or destroy the jest which makes its author laugh. Yet I am far from thinking this tenderness universally necessary; for he that writes may be considered as a kind of general challenger, whom every one has a right to attack; since he quits the common rank of life, steps forward beyond the lists, and offers his merit to the public judgment. To commence authorship is to claim praise, and no man can justly aspire to honor, but at the hazard of disgrace. But whatever be decided concerning contemporaries, whom he that knows the treachery of the human heart, and considers how often we gratify our own pride or envy under the appearance of contending for elegance and propriety will find himself not much inclined to disturb; there can surely be no exemptions pleaded to secure them from criticism, who can no longer suffer by reproach, and of whom nothing now remains but their writings and their names. Upon these authors the critic is undoubtedly at full liberty to exercise the strictest severity, since he endangers only his own fame, and, like Aeneas when he drew his sword in the infernal regions, encounters phantoms which cannot be wounded. He may indeed pay some regard to established reputation; but he can by that shew of reverence consult only his own security, for all other motives are now at an end.

The faults of a writer of acknowledged excellence are more dangerous, because the influence of his example is more extensive; and the interest of learning requires that they should be discovered and stigmatized, before they have the sanction of antiquity conferred upon them, and become precedents of indisputable authority.

It has, indeed, been advanced by Addison, as one of the characteristics of a true critic, that he points out beauties rather than faults. But it is rather natural to a man of learning and genius to apply himself chiefly to the study of writers who have more beauties than faults to be displayed: for the duty of criticism is neither to depreciate, nor dignify by partial representations, but to hold out the light of reason, whatever it may discover; and to promulgate the determinations of truth, whatever she shall dictate.

Second, Friedrich Nietzsche, from Ecce Homo, written in 1888, published in 1908

Ecce Homo, I.7

At heart, I am a warrior. Attacking is in my instincts. To be able to be an enemy, to be an enemy—maybe these things presuppose a strong nature; in any case all strong natures involve these things. Such natures need resistance, consequently they go in search of obstacles: the pathos of aggression belongs of necessity to strength as much as the feelings of revenge and of rancor belong to weakness. . .

The strength of the aggressor can be measured by the opposition which he needs; every increase of strength betrays itself by a search for more formidable opponents—or problems: for a philosopher who is combative challenges even problems to a duel. The task is not to overcome opponents in general, but only those opponents against whom one has to summon all one's strength, one's skill, and one's swordsmanship— opponents, in fact, who are one's equals.

To be one's enemy's equal—this is the first condition of an honorable duel. Where one despises, one cannot wage war. Where one commands, where one sees something beneath one, one ought not to wage war. My war tactics can be reduced to four principles.

First, I attack only things that are triumphant—if necessary I wait until they become triumphant.

Second, I attack only those things against which I find no allies, against which I stand alone—against which I compromise nobody but myself.—I have not yet taken one single step, before the public eye, which did not compromise me: that is my criterion of the proper mode of action.

Third, I never make personal attacks—I make use of a personality merely as a powerful magnifying-glass, by means of which I render a general, but elusive and scarcely noticeable or hardly tangible, evil more visible. In this way, for instance, I attacked David Strauss, or rather, more exactly, the success given to a senile book by the cultured classes of Germany—by this means I caught German culture red-handed. In this way I attacked Wagner, or rather, more exactly, the falsity or mongrel instincts of our “culture” which confounds the super-refined with the strong, and the decadent with the great.

Fourth, I attack only those things from which all personal differences are excluded, in which any such thing as a background of disagreeable experiences is lacking. Indeed, attacking is to me a proof of goodwill and, in certain circumstances, of gratitude. By means of it, I do honor to a thing, I distinguish a thing; whether I associate my name with that of an institution or a person, by being against or for either, it is all the same to me. If I wage war against Christianity, for instance, I feel justified in doing so because, in that quarter, I have met with no fatal experiences and difficulties—the most earnest Christians have always been kindly disposed to me. I, personally, the most severe opponent of Christianity, am far from holding the individual responsible for what is the inevitable fatal outcome of long ages.

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“Through Forests of Spruce and Snow”

A prose lyric by Tarjei Vesaas,
from his 1946 book Kjeldene (The Springs),
translated from the Norwegian Nynorsk into English
by Ethan McGuire

“Tell me of the things that are home-like.”—
Snow and spruce-forests
are home-like.

From the very moment we first stand...
they are ours.
Before anyone has told us
that there are snow and spruce-forests
they have their place in us—
And since they are there, they are there
the–whole–whole–time.

Meter-deep snow-drifts
around dark trees
—they are there for us!
Blended in our very breath.
The–whole–whole–time.
And even if no one sees them,
we have the snow and the spruce-forests with us.

Yes, the lea covered in snow
and tree after tree
as far as the eye can see,
wherever we are
we turn toward them.

And we have within us this word-of-honor:
to come home.
“Come home,
go out there,
bend back the branches
—and feel it flare up in you:
what it means to be where you belong.”

The–whole–whole–time.
Until it is quenched
in our inland-hearts.

Snø Og Granskog
Tarjei Vesaas

Tale om heimsleg—
Snø og granskog
er heimsleg.

Frå fyrste stund
er det vårt
Før nokon har fortalt det,
at det er snø og granskog,
har det plass i oss—
Og sidan er det der
heile, heile tida.

Meterdjup fonn
kring mørke tre
—det er for oss!
Innblanda i vår eigen ande.
Heile, heile tida,
om ingen ser det
har vi snø og granskog med.

Ja lia med snøen
og tre ved tre
så langt ein ser,
kvar vi er
vender vi mot det.

Og har i oss ein lovnad
om å koma heim.
Koma heim,
gå borti der,
bøyge greiner,
—og kjenne så det fer i ein
kva det er å vara der ein høyrer til.

Heile, heile tida,
til det er sløkt
i våre innlandshjarte.

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Be careful of every word of guidance, for men never cease writing books, and men never weary studying books to weariness. Yes, it is true that the wisdom of the world sits on the bookshelves of many. Yet the books are dusty, the pages are yellow, and the shelves are forgotten. Even when the books are read, few understand the words, and those who do both read and understand rarely act upon the information therein.1

I do not believe that reading The Great Books™, great poetry, etc. will improve your life.

I do not believe that studying great philosophy will improve your life.

I believe what Solomon—who, as a young man, asked God to make him great in wisdom—says in Ecclesiastes2:

I communed with mine own heart, saying,

“Lo, I am come to great estate,
and have gotten more wisdom
than all they that have been before me in Jerusalem:
yea, my heart had great experience of wisdom and knowledge.”

And I gave my heart to know wisdom, and to know madness and folly: I perceive that this also is vexation of spirit.

For in much wisdom is much grief:
and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.

Yet I am also with Nietzsche when he says3:

From the old military school of life.
—That which does not bring me down to death
will serve to make me stronger yet.

Knowledge, suffering, and the knowledge of suffering, and wisdom—these do not make you a better person. The Great Books, great poetry, great philosophy—these are not Self Help. In fact, as Aristotle says, things like these can only bring you more virtue, can only help teach you virtue, if you already have the propensity for virtue.

In the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle claims that lectures on ethics4—τὰ ἠθικά, ēthikē, ēthos—are not useful for people who are not already habituated toward these things.5 He says his “ethics” must have their starting points in the right things, in a basic moral perception or habituated recognition of the noble and the good.

Aristotle also argues that many people cannot even be truly and intelligently taught, because the student’s soul must have already been prepared by good habits—to like and dislike the right things; you can only be taught virtue if you have been morally prepared for virtue.6 Not necessarily that one must somehow already fully possess virtue naturally; rather that without the right kinds of habituation we are not—or not yet—capable of receiving and profiting from the teachings of virtue, of Aristotle’s ethics.

If you want to know about how to be a better person then, you can read Aristotle’s Ethics. I often do. And read the whole thing, by the way! (Far too many people do not bother with the final books of the work.) But it might also simply be another thing to bring you grief.

What I do believe is this: That philosophy is a way of life, for good or for bad. Poetry is a way of life, for good or for bad. And the great books can provide us great kinship. They can be our way to have communion with the great dead.

As Machiavelli wrote in a letter to Francesco Vettori:

When evening falls, I return home from my work and enter my study. On the threshold, I cast aside my muddy, dusty clothes and pull on regal, courtly garments. Then, decently clothed, I enter the courts of the great ancient men, where I am received by them with affection and I feed on that food which there is mine alone, the food for which I was born. There, I am not ashamed to commune with the dead, and to demand of them the reasons for their words and actions; and they, in their kindness and humanity, answer me. For four hours I feel no boredom. I forget every trouble, I do not fear poverty, and I am not frightened by death. I live entirely through the great dead in those hours. I give myself entirely to them.7

To turn again to the Ethics, Aristotle claims that friendship is fundamentally important to living a good life. “No man would choose to live without good friends, not even if he could possess all other goods.”8 It should be your aim to find a group of friends worthy of love, make yourself worthy of their love, and never stop studying and working together.

Real friendships with living people are crucial. But, like Machiavelli, we can also find kinship in the great dead.

Friendship, kinship—this is partially about having an understanding of things as well. And, building on the friendship sometimes to be found in books, we can get certain kinds of understanding too. As Thucydides wrote, “If my book be judged as an aid for those who desire to understand the past and to interpret the future, which in the course of human events must resemble if not reflect the past, I am content.”9

I do not recommend turning to the Great Books alone to improve your life. In fact, they might destroy your life. I do not recommend turning to philosophy for consolation10. In fact, it might only bring you more grief.

To improve your life, you must start more fundamentally than the Great Books. Turn instead to the cultivation of good habits and virtue in your life. Turn to the love of good friends.

There is good instruction in the Great Books, for sure. But they are more dangerous than that. They might even bring you suffering. But, if you allow it, that suffering might make you stronger, too. It might give you more soul.

There is something of brotherhood in the Great Books as well. And, like Machiavelli, I often give myself entirely to them.11 For better, and for worse.

This must be understood.

They must be understood—on their terms, not ours.

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“Soldier’s Return”

Well, warrior, they’ve had their celebration
in your honor. You said, “I’m glad,”
and you waved your gloved hand,
and your robes covered your armor,
for your armor is dented, your shield is beaten,
your sword is all bloody. But that’s not the get-up
they see.

     They see a man of courage, a man of grit,
     a man whom they call mighty hero.
     Yet you know different.

     You know God alone is mighty, who
     saved you from massacre. Your greatest friend,
     William, he’s dead. He’s the hero.

They insisted on the feast you called unnecessary.
“There’s not enough we can do,” they said.
But can they bring your own hero back?
Can they erase the scenes waiting in your dreams?
No. No, they can’t. They might try, though.
They love you, warrior. And you’re only sorrowful.
Why?

     Your wife has waited, praying for this day,
     praying for God to let her see you again.
     Yet you only lie here, with me, not caring, weeping. . .

Well, warrior, they’ll buy you new armor.
Don’t worry about that. And your sword,
it shines like an iron sun. Yes, and still
your head rests in your hands. William’s
armor rusts upon the moor, his sword
remains in bloody hands unfitting.
It’s true.

You have given us happiness and rest.
We should be grateful, always, for you.
Not all know but I see how you feel:
Depressed, weary, tormented, forsaken.
Yet you are not completely forsaken,
though only God can help the other things.
That’s all.

     We see a man of courage, a man of grit,
     a man whom we call mighty hero.
     But you know different.

          Nevertheless, warrior, rest. You’ve won
          a country, which can be safe for now
          because of what you’ve done and do.

For now, I make my memorial to him
through my care and love of you.

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“Forsake not thy mother’s teachings” — Proverbs 1:8

“Saint Monica”

The mother, looking down, adores the babe
Still cradled in her firm and gentle arms.
The baby peers up at his mother, reaching
His tiny fingers to her cheeks, all rosy
From doing dishes, laundry, sacrifice.

The mother rocks her babe and gently sings
Songs from the past, rewritten—born again—
Songs from beneath her heart—beneath her fears.
The baby squints and opens wide brown eyes;
He laughs and cries to hear his mother’s voice.

A pretty face, sweet lips, a charming voice:
Now these things treat the baby’s senses first,
And though his mother will teach him the truth—
The truth of life and life beyond this life—
Here beauty builds truth’s way inside his mind.

“Mother Charity”

Charity, great love,
is the love of my mother.
Agape. Selfless.

ἀγάπη
Worlds forever change.
Situations are as tides.
My mother is constant.

ἔρως
Eros, romantic,
is a love of many lusts.
Temporal pleasures. Venus.

στοργή
Storge, natural,
widely diffused, emotive,
finds dependency.

φιλία
Philia, the chosen
love, the least gregarious,
fluctuates with pride.

Eros, storge, philia—
good but not self-sufficient—
seek a foundation.

The politician
persuades us with certain truths.
He is but white noise.

The billionaire provides
sacrifices for the poor,
yet he lacks charity.
He gives for himself.

My mother is charity.
She never wavers or drifts
away from paths clear to her.
All the other kinds of loves
I have found are dim.

“Dear Mom”

Your love is like moonlight,
illuminating good in us.
Your love feeds and clothes us.
Your love is charity.

The angels in their circuits
of travel about the Earth
have found no mortal love
more devotional than yours.

These poems, or versions of them, previously appeared in Agape Review, Well Met, Foundling House, Fevers of the Mind, and The Flummoxed.

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“F r a g m e n t s”

After Bob Dylan and a line from Marcus Aurelius

Time is     A víolent ríver
with     An óverwhélming swáy,
and anything     Which énters thére
is brought     To síght and swépt awáy.

Now I lack     The dísposítion
to re-    Fléct on évery mistáke.
Like Adam, I    Endúre the síns
each of     My síns in túrn must máke.

Like wood chips from     A fállen trée
along     The Strúma pássing bý,
memories drift     Throughóut my bráin
like     A cánopy ónce held hígh.

I have sacrificed     The yóungest mén
and     The máidens tó my góds;
I have sunk     The sáving shíps
just     To lówer Strýmon’s ódds.

So I can    Not héal the húrting
I     Have cáused by léaving for hére;
I cannot     Forgíve my own síns,
and     My sórrow is tóo uncléar.

In the formal and conceptual elements of “F r a g m e n t s,” I intend it to represent the crafting of order out of disorder, the movement of language from prose through song to poetry—but the movement is not yet complete, the guiding aspects are still painfully present, and ambiguities abound. This poem previously appeared in Fevers of the Mind, Inspire, my chapbook Before Apokalypto, and my book Apocalypse Dance.

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“WRITE!”

I write because I am selfish,
and I wish to embrace my selfish pride.

I write because I am unselfish;
maybe my writing will help others.

I write because I care,
and I love what I write.

I write because I do not care
but know my unloved work is required.

I write because people are kind,
and I want them to praise me.

I write because people are unkind,
yet I want some of them to notice me.

I write because I am inspired;
I simply must write immediately.

I write because I love to write,
and such love demands an answer.

I write because I hate it at the time
but must love it at the same time.

I write because I want to be a writer;
writing fulfills my never-lost dreams.

I write because I do not want to be a writer,
and writing helps relieve my disappointment.

I write to relieve the stress;
writing allows me to escape my world.

I write stressed and in a panic
when the reality of a project presses me.

I write to show the truth;
I write when I have let the truth down.

I write because I am a sinner:
a sinner sat before a judgement of paper.

This poem originally appeared in Our Time is Now.

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“The Bluegrass Players”

“While waiting out a storm at Ōishida, I found the scattering winds had blown the seeds of haikai there which had taken root in the villagers’ minds. The resulting vines were bearing sweet perennial flowers. The smell brought back old times and softened the heart—like the clear notes of a flute. Yet the village poets were lost in the forest of error, unable to distinguish between the old and new ways, trying to take both at once without anyone to guide them. I sat and composed a collection of linked verse with them, leaving it as a gift, trying to be of some help during my own travels.” — Matsuo Bashō, The Narrow Road to the Deep North, translated by Ethan McGuire

My father, driving down I-44—
Still peering through his wipers and the hárd rain—
Reached over to the dial, searching for
At least one halfway decent Country station.
He took his eyes off of the road to laugh
And say to me, “Ah, now, that is the stuff!”

The 107.9 Coyote at the Lake
Played mostly boring mainstream slop.
Today was different though—Southern Rock
For one whole hour: ZZ Top,
The Ozark Mountain Daredevils, or Lynyrd Skynyrd,
Molly Hatchet—Dad just stroked his beard.

I chuckled then and said, “It would appear
We’re listening to good ole Rock ‘n’ Roll
On our way to play Bluegrass here!”
Dad furrowed his thick brows and said, “Well, on the whole,
This music has much more in common
With Bluegrass than this station usually can summon.”

We played a Bluegrass show with Uncle Malcolm’s band,
And afterward we jammed, as was expected,
But only joined as long as we could stand.
The guys who stayed were split, affected
By both the old and newer ways of playing,
Without a master’s guiding hand—for staying.

My father and my uncle stood around
And talked as we packed up our instruments,
But even there, as thoughtful and profound
As they still are, their interlocutors
Fell damned far short (of those two intellects):
The old and new confusions made them less.

Their talent and their passion too unfocused,
Too split between tradition and progression,
They could not think or feel quite right, so missed
The chance to make the abstract concrete, their obsession:
To parrot what they’d heard—so dour.
But Dad just laughed, “That wasn’t worth an hour!”

My Uncle made an ódd statement before
We loaded up the van to drive back home.
“We never would have traveled out this far—
Unless we were the kind of men to roam—
To play and sing for nothing, like we do,
Before the day the Interstate came through.

“And yet, new things like this, connecting worlds,
Will likely mean the death of what we love:
This Bluegrass. Because Folk belongs to worlds
Of people who must lean on what they have.
Now, we don’t need it; we just love it, so
Bluegrass will fade away like all things do.”

I don’t play music like I did
Before I left to move across the country.
My dusty Gibson F-5 sits beneath its lid
Unless I use it to spark creativity.
I sold my Martin HD-28 guitar
While saving for a house and car.

But the poet Bashō wrote it well:
The seed of music and of thought took root
Decades ago; the vines bear flowers still. That smell
Brings back old times—the clear notes of a flute.
Or in my case, the notes of fiddles, banjos,
Guítars, mandolins, and upright basses.

Now, Tony Rice and Ricky Skaggs do it,
Transporting me back to the Ozark hills,
Or when my brother Seth and I duet—
Guitars come out, we flex old skills.
Our Dad and Uncle Malcolm were our masters,
Both helping us avoid the old and new disasters.

We drove back home at midnight, a three-hour drive,
But had no trouble being on the lookout.
We nearly had a wreck, were glad to be alive—
An eighteen-wheeler had a blowout,
But Dad drove for a living, swerved just right,
And brought us safely home that night.

This poem was previously published at Anti-Heroin Chic and in my debut poetry book, Apocalypse Dance. When I published it in Apocalypse Dance, the wonderful Steve Knepper kindly called it “Ethan McGuire’s remarkable long poem that brings together both Ethan’s ancestral Ozarks and Bashō’s Japan.”

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Poems—in meter, rhyme, syllabics, and prose lyric; some comedic or ironic, some serious and sincere—by whose music we might dance through the apocalypse.

“Before Apokalypto”

Breathe deeply.
Inhale the stone and ichor
of a coming storm—
a new Titan:  Apocalypse. 

“Montage Religion”

my morals | are | my religion
my politics | are | my religion
my time	| is | my religion
my work	| is | my religion
my thoughts | are | my religion
my dreams | are | my religion
my love | is | my religion
my religion | is | my religion

“Werewolf”

You can shoot me down
as much as ya’ want.
With a hole in my head,
I'll just get back up.
My emotions heal fast:
Go ‘n’ get a bigger gun.
Until you blow me apart—
or find that silver bullet
or catch me to burn me
or decapitate me—
I’ma keep movin' on.

“Shot Through a Window”

deregnil nam a gniwonk nI
—gnol oot raf swodniw ta
erutuf a rof gnignol
—niatrecnu dna raelcnu
tsap eht morf tellub a
kram suoicilam sti dnuof
niarb eht fo retnec eht ni
.tneserp raelc a fo

niarb that fo retnec eht nI
—peets yellav a yal won
edivid\tcennocsid a
—ynomrah saw ereht ecno erehw
thgir dna tfel neewteb
.demrasid ,serehpsimeh

“The Old Gods”

I

God sits upon His throne, that golden height,
And holds worlds in His palms, withholds His might.

The Muses by His side both come and go
And whisper in our ears the good we know.

II

Old Satan rules the bowels of Earth’s black flame
And wields his damned, wild reign, the King of Shame.

The Furies scour the land and boil men’s blood
With coals—and with knives loose a crimson flood.

The Fates dispense and cut threads they contrive
And make men meet mean ends or come alive.

III

The Wyrd King Death on tertiary throne
Will flay his planet till all flesh is bone.

“Apocalypse Dance”

If I am honest with myself I know
The world around me teeters on the edge
Of something great—for good perhaps. Or not.

      I only need to step outside my door
      To see my city and our sweat-and-blood
      Achievements. Some of which we earned, and some
      Of which we stole or halfway stole from gods
      Who lived within the boundaries of this land
      Before our mothers knew our fathers’ names—
      These awesome, awful prizes which may vanish
      Before I even turn around again
      To value and appreciate their worth—

            Our city’s hardest-won accomplishments.
            We may deserve to lose them now. Or soon.

We are, all of us here, together—dancing,
Ignoring our collective shivering moment,
In time with tunes that oscillate between
The chilling and the fiery—engaged in dance
With no one other than Apocalypse.

“Fear, Death, and Karen”

Death came for Karen last night.
He made his dark and wingèd way down
from the fabric of outer reality
until he pushed through our mortal world, us to collect.

Death came for Karen last night,
his midnight, serpentine cloak flying,
his rotten-flesh, skeleton fingers reaching
for each soul whom God had placed upon the Reaper's list.

Death came for Karen last night,
Karen who terrorizes many,
who always does demand unjust services,
who makes each poor college student retail worker cry.

Death came for Karen last night,
and when she asked him, “Have I done well?
Does heaven wait for me? Hell it shall not be!”
Death's slow voice simply rasped out, “Karen: Damned to fire.”

Death came for Karen last night,
yet she is on Earth shopping today,
for when foul Death grasped Karen's greedy hands, she
invoked that dreaded rite, “I demand your manager!”

“Gratitude”

For C.C. & M.BS.

All my words fall short.
 The truth is I know nothing new or novel.
  Should I express my gratitude to life?
   Should I express a Nietzschean embrace
    Of suffering—for life?

     Sure, I could sing the great uplifting songs,
      But each of them must end,
       And yet the world and life and suffering. . .
        These never end.

         So I throw up my hands, toward the sky,
          And I can only scream.
          “God damn!” That’s all I have
          To make me feel alive,
          To make me feel I am a man.
          To me, this feels extreme; 
         Beyond me, it is little—and a lie.

        Speaking to my soul,
       Admonishing, “Don’t grow too weary yet.
      Go on ahead and lift your songs to Heaven.”
     Perhaps I have a lion’s lungs within
    My chest: “So scream to Heaven!”

   No—damn it all to Hell!—it isn’t much,
  But I have nothing else
 Fit for a man, a woman, or myself—
No, nothing else.

“Vampir”

I grew up my whole life hearing
of men who hurt inside, and men
who said they were hurt somehow.
I never understood, until I walked
along my own highway, minding myself,
and a fiend drove a hawthorn stake
deep into my pale chest. I cried, “Lord!
What pain!” But I did not know what I cried.

That stake, rough and splintered,
filled my chest with agony. I could not
sleep, eat, drink, work without a jolt
of throbbing anguish. I wished
I could drown the demon who did this
awful thing to me. What one had bold
enough discretion? I hurled and hurled
strong accusations to the sky. “Lord!
What pain!” Then I realized:

The stake belonged to me. I remembered
carving it, day by day, in dreams maybe,
or maybe in the day with and without
knowing. I understood I owned
the stake; some hunter had bided his time.
With wisdom comes sorrow. “Lord!
What pain!” the words I shot to heaven.

I searched the world, libraries, men.
I could think of nothing else. Nothing else.
Others with a similar issue of luck had cut
off the protruding part of the stake, leaving
the rest inside their body, leaving it
to rot and, they hoped, to disappear. “Lord!
What pain!” I could not go that route.

Those men’s innards fester and writhe
from the poison that is the stake’s shaft.
For years, their outsides do not show
the effects, but the wood remains
until come later years, not even bald-years,
and sores and cracks run through
their skin, gray and filled with boils.
These men die crying, “Lord!
What pain!” yet do not sorrow.

What could I do? Death approached.
Steadily, quickly. My soul ached.
I wondered, “Can I pull out the stake
myself?” I tried, but convulsions
racked my frame; tears filled my eyes;
my knees hit the floor; my eyes fell down
to my chest and closed. Blood trickled down
in red, yellow rivers from my wound. “Lord!
What pain!” I saw the stake was a cross.

“Wild Oats”

People told me, when I was younger,
      "Sow your wild oats!"
But little did I know that devils
turn wild oats into demons as they grow,
or turn that plant, the wild oat, into a vine
which a demon might more easily possess,
      which demons feast on ghosts
      and become ghosts,
      willing to wreck what havoc they will on men.

One particular handful of wild oats
I threw on fertile ground grew up,
      despite what I would have.
Those wild oats intertwined into one,
in time, and inside lodged a demon,
      which shrieked its way
      to the home I built so carefully.
My love took note of a wild oat that grew
up from the ground, under our windowsill.
      "I do not know that I wish to raise
      that wild oat," she said.

But I knew not what wild oats can do.
       “No worries grow inside that wild oat.
      It is only a seed and will grow into a plant,
      easily kicked down and crushed.”
This word she took for truth, though I worried now.
      I seemed to recall plants growing and harming,
      of which I had heard but could not remember.

My love grew great, and my love was content.
My life was good, and my home grew stable.
Yet somehow I had forgotten that wild oat.
      But it did not forget me.

It grew one night with peculiarity, fast and strong,
twisting snake-like through my window,
      across the floor,
            up the stairs,
                  and to my room.
It wrapped itself around my lover's soft foot
and drug her to the floor, where it gripped its stranglehold
      around her neck, veins bulging,
      and held tight until my lover had died.

I yelled out to our daughter, whom I loved,
to run from that wild oat. She reached the yard
      before the oat struck through
      my last hope for love's happiness.
Then, slithering through my love's result, 
it escaped, escaped the hacking blade 
      that I now held, and melted into the dirt.

So here I sit, testimony to wild oats and love,
head in hands, despairing over both of my loves' losses. 
And the wild oat is newly demonized.
      It rises quickly toward the land.

These ten poems were previously published at Alien Buddha, The Blood Rag, Creativity, Exquisite Death, Fevers of the Mind, , and The Poetry Cove, as well as in my chapbook Before Apokalypto and in my debut poetry book, Apocalypse Dance.

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“Home”

Cross-legged
Alone, 24,901
Miles from home.

“Good Weather Bad”

Red sky at night,
     Sailors delight.

Great, gray billows
     Brush over good news.

“Patient History”

After Amit Majmudar

The doctor—Swift, a specialist, I think—
He really only babbled on and on—
Not like a brook which chuckles over stones
But like old fingers on a keyboard’s keys. 

He spelled out his dire diagnosis, fast,
With complicated sentences and words,
Yet it translated, all, to me as this:
Only, “It is what it is,” and, simply, “Well,
These sorts of things will happen sometimes,” too. 

I walked out of his office with a haze 
Completely interlaced throughout my brain. 
That irksome lump my wife had pointed out— 
The aches, the weariness which woke me up— 
If I had been the type to bother folks, 
Perhaps we could have caught this sooner then. 

Still, no, that never was my way at all,
So I guess I’ll just drive home and tell my wife,
For I have always quietly endured
The good and bad news sent to me by God.

“December Sunset”

The sun is setting,
The cold is coming,
And yet the falling sun
Still shines with glórious rádiance.

A day is ending, 
A night is nearing, 
And yet the night, to me, 
Is nothing to be feared. 

My work is over,
My time must answer. . .
True, but I do not mourn,
Because the sun helps show:

To thé day-lover,
Let nó thoughts linger
On thé shadóws of night,
For thé sun rises áfterward.

These four poems were previously published in Fevers of the Mind, Black History & More, Creativity, and in my debut poetry book, Apocalypse Dance.

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Three Poems by the Song Dynasty General and Poet Yue Fei

Translated from the Classical Chinese by Ethan McGuire

Originally Published in Blue Unicorn

“The Echoes of Hooves”

The wind winds west below the setting sun.
The beats of horses’ hooves rhyme like a song.
They gallop out and—loud—but less—return.
—Damn the harsh anxieties they bring!

響駟曲

西風落日兮
馬蹄響韻兮
一來一往兮
憂思難禁兮

“A River South”

The river runs where heroes rode before.
Wild geese fly home across the mountains, bare.
At dawn, the royal guests will come ashore—
All chuckling over last night’s journey here.

一江南

水逐英雄盡
山空白雁還
明朝朝客在
應笑昨夜船

“Crossing the River”

For Zhang Wan, while crossing the Zhang River 

Without the heart for wine
       or idle talk with mindless youths,
I peer into the mirror
       as my young man’s hair grows gray.
Boys laugh and mock beneath
       Spring blossoms, and perhaps they should,
For with a haggard horse
       I seek a sage along the way.

過張溪贈張完

無心買酒謁青春
對鏡空嗟白髮新
花下少年應笑我
垂垂羸馬訪高人

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“Seven Ways of Looking at Pensacola”

After Basho, Buson, and Issa

The origin of sound:
a frog jumping into a lagoon—
a snake sliding in on his heels.

Thrilled, then terrified—
watching an osprey dive
and pluck a fish from the bay.

Even at Pensacola Beach—
hearing the rushing waves—
I long for Pensacola.

I pour my whiskey on a mosquito
poised to strike my sweaty arm—
maybe he is lonely too.

The church bells stop ringing—
the cool sound keeps coming my way
in the sweet smell of magnolias.

My daughter pretends she’s a heron—
standing on one leg,
even more beautiful than a heron.

The origin of art:
a street performer blowing his trumpet—
hat in front, hoping for bills.

Previously published in the Emerald Coast Review.

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Thank you, Humphrey, and I look forward to continuing to follow what you do. I’ll be seeing you, sir.

The following are the two poems of mine that Huck published in The Crank: “A Sinner’s Prayer: A Portrait” (also published in my debut poetry book, Apocalypse Dance from Wipf & Stock) and “Dear Leader.” Enjoy!

“A Sinner’s Prayer: A Portrait”

God, I do not believe in who You are—
Not, “Help my unbelief,” but, “I’m untrue.”
Come heal me, give me grace. I’m not that far

Away from Heaven now—some foreign star. . .
Forget it, Lord; I love a man—not You.
God, I do not believe in who You are.

Some women, too, still fill my mind and car.
I feel a thrill with each new rendezvous.
Come heal me, give me grace. I’m not that far.

Wild, evil thoughts cut through my mind. The scar
You see here on my brain, it is not new.
God, I cannot believe in who You are.

My wife, for years, has been my registrar.
She lets me know our youngest has no clue,
So heal us, give us grace. We’re not that far.

“Forgive me?” I ask in my wife’s boudoir—
Not mine, but why? I can’t tell even You.
God, I do not believe in who You are,
But heal me, give me grace. I’m not that far.

“dear leader”

tallahassee fl
february 17 2020

i

dear leader

you seduce me with kindness
you fill me with lead
you push a pistol
against my head

ii

out here in the dark
it is not who you are
but who you know
that matters most
and though i despise
this sad reality i cherish
a certain shadow of community
a corrupt fraternity

for i am patchwork
a tired and hopeless
schizophrenic trapped
both at home and
homeless in america
a citizen an alien

iii

don't be weird i said
eric don’t be weird

no i'm serious
i'm serious he decided

fuck
your
gang
blood
shit
the obscenities smudged out
as in a bad erasure poem
though not completely
is spray painted in black  
on the back of a stop sign  
in the ever growing silhouette
of gentrification central
in tallahassee of all places
home to poverty
home to fsu
home to the florida capitol

lone runners from
the hounding dogs
signs like this stand
painted the same
tall against a blinding sun
alert and ready to leap
in every capitol
of every state
and the sentences
rarely contain punctuation
because they are
not allowed the space

i saw the sign for myself
when eric took me there
saw and barely understood
like the good missourian
i am and will remain
despite my living
in the panhandle for years

must a mish mash remix
frankenstein’s monster
freakishly metamodern
arise from underneath
reconstructed rubble
to save and defend us?

iv

the pit or the pendulum
the rifle or the bayonet
the choice of pyre or pyre
it's all the same to me
only a flame or the fire

just let me past
that suffocating silence
the pregnant calm
before a coming storm
the hair raising static
or incandescent terror
before the lightning strike

v

as i slip beneath
the turgid waters dark
of my radicalization dire
the churn refreshes
my heart and fills my lungs

when lumbering clouds
rest palms of rain on the earth
nature breathes anew

vi

against my head
you push a pistol
you fill me with lead
you seduce me with kindness

dear leader

Beyond The Crank, “A Sinner’s Prayer: A Portrait” was also previously published in my debut poetry book, Apocalypse Dance, and sections of “Dear Leader” were published in Atop the Cliffs, The Blood Rag, and VoegelinView.

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“Hurricane Sally Aftermath”

Billboards with canvases ripped up and dangling—
Pine trees snapped at their centers like toothpicks—
Power lines straining under magnolias—
Traffic signs, jagged, torn centers like paper—
Men dotting rooftops and stretching blue tarps—
Semis in ditches, on their backs like turtles—
A three-mile bridge collapsed in the center—
             Driving down the interstate, bare,
On our way to the marina, after the hurricane.

A church with its steeple bent over and broken—
Street saplings bowing toward cars on the road—
Ancient oak canopies blocking park pathways—
Jon boats and pontoons, on streets, resting, inland—
American flags, halved, at their poles flapping—
New paint chips stripped from the sides of old houses—
Conquistadors, bronze, fallen in fountains—
             Navigating cars stalled downtown,
On our way to the marina, after the hurricane.

Barges washed up and dry, squatting by condos—
Piers’ timber supports holding up nothing—
Wooden docks, wayward, strewn about, splintered—
Two white yachts resting on wedding lawn venues—
The mast of a sailboat impaling an office—
Black petrol water washed through a bank’s lobby—
Odd tombstones of boat’s bows lining lagoons—
             Traversing the mournful wreckage
Of an abandoned marina, after the hurricane.

Previously published in the Emerald Coast Review and in my debut poetry book, Apocalypse Dance.

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“Disciple Dash”

I would run free with you 
      if just on principle, 

Although, as you know, 
     running’s not my style. 

Your love has transformed 
      me into a disciple, 

Even if only 
     for a little while. 

Hello. So long! Good-bye.

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“A Man of Bethsaida”

I am a man of my people,
and I am loyal to my community.
My city stands steadfast and proud,
and my fellow men and women, friends, are strong.
Yet something inside me has always harassed me,
and try as I may, this feeling intensifies continually:

          A knowledge our pride is empty,
          an intuition our strength is corrupt,
          knowing we stand upon a hollow foundation.

And now, two men, they’re strangers, both,
          foreigners, or ne'er-do-wells perhaps,
have visited our town, strutting through the gates.
Side-by-side, they stand in our city square,
          their dusty, drab garments stained,
          their hair matted, outlined against
          our city’s clean walls and washed streets.
Of all things, they attempt to instruct us.
We require no instruction. 
 
“Laborers are needed for the harvest,” they say.
“The work is difficult and plentiful,
          but the workers are few.”
They are lambs among a pack of wolves, they think,
          or so it certainly seems
          as they walk ever guarded and meek.

These two, they carry no purse, no provisions.
They travel with no extra clothing or shelter,
          no obvious preparation.
They approached our city quickly even,
          not stopping on their road at any juncture.
 
They entered my house;
          I invited them out of pity.
As they came across the threshold, they proclaimed,
“May this house see peace.
May its inhabitants be at peace.” 
 
Our visitors ate and drank much, with minimal manners.
Though they were not rude,
          they paid our common ways little mind.
“If sons and daughters of peace reside here,” they said,
“may peace rest upon them.”
 
The two strangers wandered about our town,
claiming to heal the sick, saying to the healed,
“The kingdom of God has approached you;
          it has come near by you,”
and in the square they shouted oddly,
“The kingdom of Heaven is at hand.” 

The strangers stirred up unrest in our city, fair,
          and their doctrines did not benefit our loyalties.
Preaching in our streets was the last straw.
“Who are these outsiders to teach us?” we mocked.
I am curious as I observe the scene.
 
The two wanderers have gone quiet now.
Concern and sadness fill their faces as they turn,
leaving us at last, respecting my city’s wishes.
They were not welcomed at first, only tolerated,
and now they must go.
 
Yet, as they depart, shaking our dust from their feet,
the emptiness inside of me grows,
          that uncertain feeling harassing me again.
Will our city ascend unto Heaven? No...
If the strangers are right, we shall descend,
          descend into Hades. 

A longing to follow after the two invades me.

Previously published at LogoSophia.

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“Lover,”

    One more night.
                                  There is an end I have in sight,
    even though it may be black as it can be.
            Well, I hope to see you there;
            no, it will not matter what you wear,
and for tonight your light is all I need,
because tonight our love is all I see.

“Valentine Winter”

White-woven water falls
softly, steadily, outside
my window, drifting across
a laid-bare, lonely window pane.

A man and a woman—
sitting at their kitchen table
drinking hot, black coffee,
freshly ground and brewed—
say, “Your way is my way,
and your tears are my tears,”
as they reach across the table
carefully toward each other.

Staring across morning valleys
from hilltop vantage points,
I see a path upon which
a figure roams wandering—one.

Even still, without reprieve,
white-woven water falls
steadily, softly, outside
my window, drifting across
a lonely, laid-bare window pane.

Your way works better.
I can hardly deny it.
Let me leave with you.

“The King & Queen of Neon”

He leans on the wall;
She rests on the tacky bar—
yellow lights flashing.
He’s too old to haunt these clubs;
She ignores her date who whines.

He searches the crowd;
She peers through the throbbing throng—
orange lasers piercing.
She catches His eyes and stares;
He longs toward Her but remains.

Across the alley—
running with urine and beer—
red-shaded bulbs light
a Thai place where two couples
lean back at thin, dim tables.

He sits with a girl
who only keeps texting friends,
whose glasses shine white.
She sits across the room, slouched;
Her date fidgets with a watch.

Another night club,
this The Downtown Denizens—
purple lights flashing.
He and She dance, moving, smiling,
lips open without speaking.

She rolls with the song;
He circles Her and holds on—
blue lasers piercing.
They laugh and their feet grow tired; 
they tumble out together.

He drinks a jack ‘n’ coke;
She drinks a vodka cran.
Her green dress sparkles.
Hand in hand, they waltz with skill;
hand in hand, they take a drink.

“On Another Average Evening”

She lies sprawled across a battered couch,
green scrubs still covering her body,
a cheap wine glass dangling from outstretched fingers.
          He swings through the splintering apartment door,
          blue, button-up uniform unbuttoned,
          stained undershirt beneath it. “I’m home.”
“I had an awful day at work,” she sighs
as she picks up a bottle of Woodbridge merlot.
Pouring a glass, her eyes search the hall for him.
          “Yeah?” he grunts, opening the fridge.
“Been having trouble with the charge nurse again,
and my plantar fasciitis is back.”
          “Oh, no,” he says, pausing in the hallway.
“Administration, man, they’re coming down on us!
‘Course they won’t lower censuses for a damn thing. . .
Maybe just another freaking pizza party. . .
They’ll call us heroes but won’t give us a chance.”
          “That sucks,” he responds, as he limps through the hall
          and as he sinks into the couch beside her.
“I hate being a floor nurse, hate it like hell.
I’ve gotta do something else.”
          “I’m sorry.”

They sit still
in the cold and the quiet then.
They only stare absently into
a noiseless, motionless TV, until
their hands touch. A certain love connects them.
She moves over closer to his body,
and he slides his soiled, calloused hands under hers.

These poems have previously appeared in Fevers of the Mind, Black History & More, Overcome, and New Verse News, as well as here at The Flummoxed, in my poetry chapbook Songs for Christmas, and in my poetry book Apocalypse Dance.

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“Oh Death”

Roud Folk Song Index #4933

Examining blue     fingertips . . .

I feel his tearing teeth     cut through my flesh.
I sense his curling tongue     upon my bones.
His weathered fingers grope—     in white skin flush.
His rotten arms surround     my neck—it burns.

“Oh, Death, you’ve found me     laid out in my bed—
you're/damned hungry too,     that much is far too clear.
What can I get you?     Other men? Go feed
on them—my sinful peers—     that's only fair.”

Skeleton rattling, Death     laughs hoarsely.
“What can you buy me,     mortal man? Those other men?
A herd of cattle? Rivers’ fish?     Ha! Hardly!
Gnawed bones fill graves;     I come right back again.”

“Then my soul is yours.     I am your slave.”
“God damn your soul! And it     won’t matter if you’re brave.”

I wince—at black saliva     pooling—on his lips . . .

Previously published at Exquisite Death.

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“The Warm Front”

A dirty, cloudy night turns into morning.
Morning reveals a sickly, sepia sky.

A cold front lumbered through this way a week ago.
A wicked sort of weather is approaching now.

“Thorn & Shout”

The Queen, my queen—
Queen of the South—
Inspires our love
And a triumph’s shout.

The King, my king—
King of the North—
Sits on a throne
Of thistle and thorn.

“Damned Winter”

The Winter was      too warm.

The season was    too short.
The rain was rare-   ly ice.
The blanket spread    too thin.

The seeds made sprouts    too soon.
Tree blossom flow-   ers froze.
The earth was not    quite cold

Enough to rest      the World. 

These poems previously appeared in Fevers of the Mind, Black History & More, Creativity, and in my debut poetry book, Apocalypse Dance.

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