Accepting an Infinite Regression of Causes (#poem #NaPoWriMo)

R. Horton

IMG_6604If only life had come into being
On different terms, according to a different template.

If pain weren’t the primary motivating factor
For keeping life propelling itself forward,

If the best of all possible worlds weren’t
A universe where all life is suffering,

If life required no development,
No yearning for higher goals,

If life were complete, as it is,
With nothing but simple satisfaction
To guide it to its inevitable conclusion,

If only the ultimate spirit,
The source of all energy,
Had held back just a little,

Then I wouldn’t be staring into your eyes
Wondering why you still tolerate my gaze.

On the Odd Quality of Trumpets in the Mist (#poem #NaPoWriMo)

R. Horton

Day 5 of NaPoWriMo is a bit complicated. We’re to write a villanelle that uses a line from another poem and also uses lines with opposing ideas. My first line, which repeats, is from Stephanie Brown’s Schadenfreude. My third line, which also repeats, is in opposition to the first. Anyway, here’s my stab at it.


There should be the sound of trumpets, thin and mournfulIMG_7102
As we emerge in mist and set off on our journey.
We’ll make song, laughter, and love seem normal.

It’s only a walk. We won’t be won’t be beaten and forlorn, so
We can rise up and never be brought to our knees.
There should be the sound of trumpets, thin and mournful.

We won’t be stopped, though we know we’re only mortal.
We’re made of stiff stock and can always foresee
That we’ll make song, laughter, and love seem normal.

Savagery is defeated by being kind and cordial,
But we’re fighting destruction of civil society.
There should be the sound of trumpets, thin and mournful.

The angels among us sing out with joy and hearts so full
Of love that we continue to believe in future with peace.
We’ll make song, laughter, and love seem normal.

The waters rise and smoke chokes our lungs, so
We raise our banners and fists as we march through the country.
There should be the sound of trumpets, thin and mournful.
We’ll make song, laughter, and love seem normal.

 

 

The Distinct Challenges of Hyperfocus (#poem #NaPoWriMo)

R. Horton

Straddling a life between town and country,

I remember you once stood on a snake.

You never saw it as we were shouting,

Until you moved and it slithered away.

Once you walked into a concrete column,

As I told you to hurry and catch up.

But you were focused and a little solemn,

Just searching for green anoles close up.

So many times you fell into a pond,

And I had to pull you out of the mud.

You were just looking to find what’s beyond.

You were happy to risk bruises and blood.

But I wonder now if you see my life.

As only pixels tell me of your strife.

The Unintended Consequences of Complimentary Behavior (#poem #NaPoWriMo)

R. Horton

He made a clumsy compliment,
And it was taken for an insult.
Immediately, he tried to explainScreenshot 2019-04-03 at 08.02.28
The misunderstanding, but
He was told to “stop digging.”

And so it was.
He wasn’t in love, exactly,
But he admired her
Constantly and consistently.
He spoke highly of her to colleagues
And mutual acquaintances.

Hoping to eventually mend the rift,
He overcompensated with kindness,
But she seemed to recede further
In the distance with each step
He tried to take forward.

And small mistakes can have
Grave consequences. They say
The entire universe is a mess
Because Brahma was too drowsy
During the act of creation,
Which is an important lesson
For fertile but untutored lovers.

And as the universe tends to replicate
An original error exponentially,
So relationships can create
Great webs of resentment
And confusion. Even chaos.

It was all right, of course.
He found other jobs and
Other social and vocational
Networks away from her gaze.
He found a wife, passed his
Own genes on to unsuspecting
New persons peering into
Brahma’s mistake for the first time.

After her divorce, she heard of him
And his relative success and wondered
How such a ham-fisted and socially
Awkward dimwit could carry on.

But we do carry on.
Brahma hasn’t had a nap
In eons, and light travels to our
Eyes from the furthest reaches
Of space, just so we can experiment
With clumsy compliments.

God is in the Details (#NaPoWriMo #poem)

R. Horton

Some see God where
Others see only
Pain and suffering.Screenshot 2019-04-02 at 06.41.56

I read in the news
About a lady whose home
Was destroyed by a tornado,
Except for a closet
She happened to be hiding in.
She called it her prayer closet
And praised the Lord
For sparing it.
She said, “My God is
Awesome! Shout somebody!”

I guess if I believed
My God just destroyed
Everything I owned except
For a prayer closet, I might
Wonder why God had forsaken me,
But we don’t all see things
The same way, do we?

Pain in the Membrane (frivolous essay on the brain)

R. Horton

They say the pain is all in your head, but where else could it be? I mean, some people do complain of pain in their hands or elbows or knees or whatever, but really the experience of the pain is in their heads as a matter of perception. That’s why some people can claim to have pains in hands or legs that don’t exist. Or exist separated from phrenologythe rest of the body. The pain is in the head, or really the mind, which is probably in the head.

At least we think of our thoughts as being in our heads. When someone does something crazy, we say, “What got into your head?” or something like that. And our thoughts really do seem to be in our heads, except when they are thoughts of the pain that is in our feet after a long day of standing—or maybe the pain of anxiety.

Or the head might not have that much to do with it. Maybe thoughts and pains are in the mind, but the mind is nowhere near the head. Stranger things have happened. I mean, no one doing brain surgery ever found a mind sitting in a skull. You just find brains and stuff in there. And fancy brain scans give colorful and delightful images of brain activity, but not too much info on where the mind is. Pretty interesting things brains are, maybe interesting enough to make minds, but who knows? Honestly, the question never crossed my mind before (this is an obvious lie).

As a young philosophy student, a professor asked if I thought the mind was in the brain. I answered affirmatively. He asked why I thought that, because that is what philosophy professors do. I’m embarrassed to say I answered in a way that seems typical of young men—with a violent example. I said that if you smashed someone’s skull with a steel bat you would witness significant degradation to that person’s state of mind.

Without relying on violent examples, you have to admit that it is often hard to see a mind capable of pure reason in a person whose brain is seriously damaged. Brains really seem important to this discussion, you know? So perhaps all pain is in the head because all pain is in the brain, but what of my arthritic hands? Surely something in my hands is related to the pain in my brain (or my mind for the people still holding out hope for that).

When someone says the pain is all in your head they mean it is in your head and does not correspond to any injury outside of your head (you know, like a stubbed toe or something). The pain is in your brain and nowhere else. Some doctors, of course, will think this fact is enough to justify denying your pain all together and, more importantly, denying you any treatment for your pain. Because of that, your pain gets no sympathy, no consideration, no attention, or anything.

And that creates a pain in your heart, and by that I mean an emotional pain. We say emotional pain is in the heart, partly because our chests often hurt when we feel emotional pain, but I think emotional pain is also in the brain or the mind, wherever it is. Pharmaceutical companies seem to agree; antidepressants aren’t heart medications, are they?

No matter where the pain is, it is most definitely real, even if we can’t be sure the mind is real. You know the pain is real because it is hurting you, and you can’t be wrong about whether you are hurting. Show me where the pain is in your body.

Impossible. The pain just is. The pain is part of the universal pain. The pain is in stardust. The pain is free-floating. The pain is in the neurons. The pain is in the gluons. You are hurting. I share your pain. We are real. Suffering is infinite, and it is all in the mind.

 

 

The Unappreciated Chef (#poem)

R. Horton

You cook with abandon.

This is your hobby,

And you embrace itdishwasher

With unlimited joy.

Sauce pans, skillets, steamers

All filled and fouled with ecstasy.

Never use the same spatula twice,

Never scrape the remnants in the pan.

Never try to prevent caking or baking residue.

You flit about from dough to dough,

Sauce to sauce wreaking havoc

On the shrinking population

Of unused cookware.

You cook as if no one is watching.

You cook as a chef who has

A cleaning staff on deck

To clear out the refuse after hours.

You dance in your own genius,

Announcing to the world, or the household,

That your Epicurean masterpieces

Have arrived. Unmitigated gusto

Propels you through each course.

You are sated. You are satisfied

With yourself and your subtle

Control of spices and condiments.

 

As you swallow your last morsel,

You mention casually,

“Well, I cooked, so you can clean.”

 

Later, when describing your

Unhappiness with your partner,

You’ll say:

“He never thanks me

When I cook for him.”

Other Kinds of Hicks, Bill

R. Horton

I saw a documentary where comedian Bill Hicks described how a heckler once complained to him that he didn’t go to comedy clubs to think. Bill said, “Well, where do you go to think? I’ll meet you there.”

Bill was from Houston, like me, and it seemed to frustrate him that the one place people didn’t go to think about the things he wanted them to think about was Houston. He would play sold out theatres in the UK only to return home to rant at an empty room to a smattering of drunks who didn’t even know his name.

I’d say Houston crowds never liked the local sons, but they sure enough turned out for ZZ Top. Those boys could easily sell-out the Summit three nights in a row. Heck, they could probably sell it out for a month. Bill Hicks tried to show us that everything we know about the world might be wrong—probably is wrong. ZZ Top taught us that many women have legs they enjoy seeing. So different goals and different success rates. When ZZ Top sang about legs, you really believed they meant it. When Bill Hicks flew into a blind rage, you really wanted to get out of the room.

Bill was probably right about everything, though. I mean, you know advertising really does cause a lot of problems, though I don’t know how many marketers killed themselves just because Bill told them to. When he flew into one of his rages, screaming at people to kill themselves, the audience would laugh at first, thinking it was a sort of Sam Kinison kind of thing, but Bill’s screaming never resolved into any kind of punch line. You’d be just as likely to cry as to laugh.

And sometimes he would cry, too. I mean, he was really moved beyond despair by the events at Waco. You might not agree with Branch Davidians, but Bill said he saw ATF setting a bunch of people on fire, which is hard to watch, you know, and you might be moved by it. Bill really was. It’s like when you realise the people in charge might not have your best interest at heart.

Disgusted by most things of the earth, Bill sought higher answers. It isn’t possible to talk directly to the cosmos for most people, so Bill did what many before him did—he turned for help to psychotropic substances. I don’t know whether it made him any wiser, but maybe it gave him some comfort, and I can’t fault him for that. Maybe he knew too much—or not enough—either one seems to bring the same pain. That’s the irony really, isn’t it? People who seek answers are rarely made happier by them, but they still keep seeking them, and really, people rarely say, “I wish I’d never looked into that.”

They just get wiser. And sadder. And that makes life worth living.

 

Pretty Messy Things (#poem)

R. Horton

The poetry is pretty perhaps,

And some may appreciate the aesthetics

While being put off by the messinessSlippery Slope

Of the content, preferring a tidy theme.

And maybe you could clean it up

A bit to avoid making the prigs uncomfortable.

Say something about flowers by the seaside,

For example, and let us forget people have sex.

And let’s forget about messy conflict

In relationships, too, while we’re at it.

Some people just want to get on with

A quiet life, not be confronted with

Confounding crises among the lovelorn.

Put a stitch in it, stuff a sock in it,

Do anything but speak of it.

Poetry is supposed to have pleasing

Rhyme and rhythm, after all,

And make us think of waterfalls,

Soaring hawks, and lovers who don’t

Fumble with zippers and buttons.

We prefer romance that is clean

And smooth, lacking rough edges,

Free of trauma and tribulation,

Free of interest and humanity.

We want the love that is printed

On a Hallmark card in February.

We want the love that we’ve dreamt

Of since we were able to dream.

And we were told the poets owe us

At least this much in reparations.

Galena Park Memories (a story)

R. Horton

“Hey, Kenneth! You gotta birthday comin’ up, dontcha?” one of them blurted from the end of the counter.

“Yessir,” came the diffident reply.

“I think I’m gonna buy you a tractor. You think you’d like that?” the boisterous Screenshot 2019-03-25 at 13.31.33interrogation continued.

“Yessir.”

“I know you need sumpin’ to pull your head out of your ass!” With that, the guffaws erupted from all four at the end of the counter—all pleased with their comedic wit.

Those bullies said Kenneth was “retarded,” and they seemed to think that made it okay to talk to him like that. I was just a kid and didn’t know if words like “retarded” were bad or not, but I felt sorry for Kenneth. I don’t know how smart he was, but I know he never got my order wrong, and he could make a pretty mean grilled cheese.

He was born and raised in Galena Park, just like them bullies were, except he didn’t seem to mind it so much. I liked him because he never seemed to have anything to prove, and the cherry sodas he made were delicious. He never treated me like a kid, and I never treated him like one, either, even if he was like 40 or something.

I think that’s what bothered them bullies so much. Kenneth didn’t care. He didn’t get mad or cry or anything. He just made cherry sodas and grilled cheeses and kept the drugstore counter spotless all the while.

He was a good man, and them bullies knew it. But they had to try to convince people they were better than Kenneth, because everyone knew they damn sure weren’t any better than anyone else. And they weren’t any better than Kenneth, either.