You don’t have to feel so special.
We’ve all done some stuff. Lord,
If you knew half the things I did,
You’d wonder why I’m not in jail.
You can just forget about what
You done, ’cause God knows
I’d let you get away with just
About anything. It’s my weakness.
I can’t blame you for being tempted.
You’re young an horny as a rabbit.
I’m just a rickety old fool, pulled
This way and that by anger and lust.
I mean, I’m the person you done
It to, but I can’t stay mad at you.
writer
On Perusing a Dictionary of Modern English Usage as It Pertains to Suffering
Deferring to the OED, Fowler’s* tells us not
To spell “inure” as “enure” for variant
Spellings are not needed; even if “inure”
Has two meanings, it is still only one word.
But who ever heard of “inure” relating to
Anything but some form of suffering?
Something quite beautiful and useful
Might well be put “in ure,” which just
Means we like this well enough to
Make a habit of it, and that cheers
Me up a little, as I had become inured
To “drudgery and distress” (Fowler’s
Example) and need reasons for joy.
You are thinking the primary usage
Became the primary usage because
The world has more misery than
Benefit, but maybe it is the other way
Around. Maybe language defines
Reality after all. If we had inured
All the good things all along,
Maybe we’d be in a better place.
If contemplating stuffy usage guides
Had inured, perhaps I wouldn’t have
Missed so many opportunities to be
Cheerful, to glide blissfully through
A life of Best Practices. Instead, I grew
Inured to heartbreak and dreary poets
Clamoring on about their lost loves.
*Fowler’s Modern English Usage, by H. W. Fowler, a handbook for pedants and arrogant copywriters.
On Bodily Autonomy and Geriatric Femininity (#poem #NaPoWriMo)
They never ask, the old ladies.
They just hug, pinch, kiss and
Cuddle at will. Babies are theirs,
You know, and they do love them
So much. I guess it isn’t their fault,
No one ever told them they aren’t
Free to touch at will. I once told
A woman to get her hands out of
My hair, and she said no man
Had ever asked her to stop
Touching him before. As an old
Lady, I’m sure she became another
Of the baby grabbers, the snogglers,
The unwanted snugglers, making
Babies turn away and stretch
For Daddy’s protection and loving
Embrace. And the Daddies will say,
“Don’t touch the babies. They are not
Yours to soil with dry lipstick and crepe
Paper skin. You may have thought your
Hands were never unwelcome, but
My babies know the master of their fate.”
The Impact of Utilitarianism on Unsuspecting Feet (#poem #NaPoWriMo)
The prompt today was to use a homophone or homonym. I can’t take credit for the example, which was offered by a former student.
After her purported reading
Of Jeremy Bentham,
She said he believed
She should do whatever
Made her happy.
For example,
She should spend
Her paycheck on new shoes,
Because they will be good
For her sole.
The Unappreciated Chef (#poem)
You cook with abandon.
This is your hobby,
And you embrace it
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.”
The Kids are Proper Communists (#poem)
(Note: This poem is about the younger generation in general and not about specific individuals.)
I’ve always supported freedom and equality
I wanted minorities to have equal opportunity.
I believed in promoting a liberal social order,
Showing non-aggression and peace at the border.
I wanted to teach the world to live in perfect harmony,
So that our new Utopia would all be down to me,
But my kids are proper communists,
They want to overthrow the state.
They will give everyone what they need,
And take whatever the wealthy can pay.
Workers will take the means of production,
And profit will be a thing of the past.
Even if there’s no greed reduction,
The billionaire power will never last.
They’ve declared private property a lie,
And reliance on investment income will die.
The worker and his value no longer alienated.
The greed of the bourgeoisie no longer sated.
My kids are proper communists,
Syndicalism will arrive any day.
My kids are proper communists.
You better get the hell out of the way.
A New Riddle of Cosmology (#Poem)
An explosion beyond comprehension sent all
The ingredients of the cosmos careening through the void.
Light, matter, and energy diffused chaotically,
Taking billions of years (as we now know them)
To fall into some kind of order, to establish
Some vaguely predictable interactions of
Cosmic proportion. Somehow, trillions of
Particles began to cooperate to form
Molecules of carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen,
oxygen, phosphorus and sulphur.
Countless others scattered to the stars as well,
Of course, but light and heat and magnetic waves
Traveled 93 million miles from the sun
To make arrangements with carbon and the
Others on Earth just to produce you,
With your weakness for basic arithmetic
And your strange susceptibility to allergies.