Long Humiliating Poems
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I
Like the light'ning in crazed velocity,
The dame, swathed in fury, charged at him.
Humiliating his giant courage,
As his soles had the loyal earth betrayed.
Charged she continuously at the baffled,
Veiled to him: the stir of the race battle.
II
Under a cedar tree at noon he sat,
Reminiscing, " What have I done to prompt that? "
Then saw he an aloof folk passing by:
Like the torpedo ignores ships that ply.
Turned on by jealousy, he pursued it.
("Gutsy!") Till he caught up and possessed it.
Thus is money: run from who run to it.
In jealousy, run to who run from it.
19:03:08:09:10
Ancestor. Ancestral Pen. Juxtaposition II
Forgive me, but I have wanted to be a quiet ruin
not the kind you sweep away,
but the kind that makes you pause at the doorway,
hands heavy, wondering where the light went.
I know the cost of such a prayer.
To be missed like a lost limb
is to ask someone else to walk with a limp.
It is a humiliating thing, this hunger:
wishing a cold, immovable stone onto a chest I love,
just to know I was heavy enough to feel.
And oh, I burn with the shame of it.
The secret, selfish urge to linger
to sit like salt in the back of their throat
when they try to name something sweet.
I want them to reach for me against all reason,
to fight the slow, merciful erosion of time,
and to fear, even for a moment,
that they will never again be who they were
when my hands were still holding theirs.
It is a terrible grace to ask for:
to want your name to sit on a tongue
like an open wound that refuses to close.
Call it a sin, if you must.
I know the grief I am asking them to bear.
I only know that just once, before the noise stops,
before the dust claims my name,
I want to have mattered so completely
that forgetting me feels like pulling thread from skin.
What formerly got celebrated as adventitious age of exploration...
1492 unleashed, jump/
kick started, and downloaded
a bittorrent götterdämmerung
spelling genocide of indigenous peoples
occupying Turtle Island,
now surviving tribes
just a shell of their former grandeur.
At present Columbus day
linkedin with high dudgeon
courtesy scattered remnants
of once proud nations
occupying contiguous United States
plus calling Alaska and Hawaii
their happy hunting grounds,
enshrine actual or mythologized
spectacular pièce de résistance
instances when counting coup.
I recollect needing to know
scores of years ago
when a student attending grade schools
within Lower Providence District
as an important bit of information
contributing to (white washed) history
of western civilization
(and never forgot)
recalling the names Nina, Pinta,
and Santa Maria associated
with heroic measures undertaken
by Cristóbal Colón,
(but also been referred to,
by himself and others, as Christoual,
Christovam, Christofferus de Colombo,
and even Xpoual de Colón)
five hundred and thirty years ago,
who purportedly "discovered"
the Americas, when in
fact native occupants of the land
already dwelled upon
the then island paradises.
He/him and subsequent swashbuckling
gung-ho high spirited men
set sail across expanse of ocean(s)
exhibiting eager intent to claim
untrammeled storied quintessentially
opulently magnificent kingdoms
intoxicating greedy Europeans.
Blatant exploitation inexorably nudged
courtesy trickery vis a vis hook and crook
to grab good & plenty treats
forcibly wrested by violence
sabotaging the delicate webbed wide world
constituting millenniums of heavenly bliss,
where marauders wantonly ransacked
indeed lacking absolute zero selflessness
forcing diverse autochthonous nations
to acquiesce and surrender
ancestral grounds to aggressive, coercive
and offensive Europeans hell bent
to populate occupied territory
commandeering, humiliating, manhandling,
poisoning, subdividing, triangulating
every square inch
encompassing fruitful grand home
of rightful heirs to stolen
near boundless tracts
eventually hashtagging uncharted
pristine green acres
spanning from sea to shining sea
becoming commercial real estate
falsely claiming a haven
housing home of the free
land of the brave.
Shattering the Unbroken Cycle
Bully's shadow looms, a pervasive stain
across all sectors, absurd, yet sustained
Governments and schools deny workers' rights
incentives, facilities, and dignity's light
Seniors torment juniors with blows and pain
emotional scars, hunger, and shame's stain
Educators wound with words, with physical might
abuse and fear, a toxic, endless night
Domestic walls conceal violence and despair
husbands, wives, and shattered vows laid bare
Governments neglect, oppress, and deny
basic rights, humanity, and a chance to thrive
Even sacred spaces hide oppression's face
wealth and power, a sharp, humiliating knife's pace
Do we bully for fleeting power's sake?
Is happiness not our purpose, our heart's ache?
Can't we choose kindness, unity, and love?
Break bully's chains, send humanity from above
We scooted back to Paris last week,
to the sweltering capital of romance,
where I took a series of employment tests,
in bright rooms where they timed my answers.
Let’s see, there was: a two day, two part
“statistics and aptitude test,”
a set of “analytical, quantitative screenings,”
a personality inventory, two cognitive ability tests,
a leadership judgment exercise and three, blind
structured interviews where they didn’t know who I am.
(that my Grandmère owns the entire circus.)
THOSE were fun.
There’s nothing like the humiliating theatricality of being
asked to summarize yourself in a job interview.
I’ll let the embarrassment speak for itself.
Don’t shed any tears for me - I’ve spent my entire life
being assessed, by teachers, family, strangers in bars
- as have you.
But it was the first time I’ve ever become entangled
in the machinery of respectable work and tried to look employable.
I think modern evaluation is half judgment, half performance art.
YOU know I’m a mess, I mean, you read me - but what do they know?
They never directly asked whether I’m sane, but I think
they wanted to know if I could sound sane in a boardroom.
I’m going to work for my Grandmère.
Part time, because I’m still going to be at university.
“Why do I have to take these tests,” I whined,
“aren’t I a nepo-baby - don’t I have *rights*??!!
“Anyone who’s being hired into management,
by any decent company has to take these tests,”
she assured me, as if explaining something to a dog.
Adding, “You SEEM reasonably intelligent, but I could be biased.”
“I should hope so,” I mumbled, pouting like a 5-year-old.
I won’t lie, there was some emotional pressure in all of this.
I mean, I DO deserve all of my advantages, don’t I?
If I was going to do this, I genuinely needed to be taken seriously.
It appears that I’ll be joining the bureaucratic meritocracy,
in September.
.
.
A song for this:
Triangular Girl by Pearl & The Oysters
I don't excel at life because of modesty and honesty,
there are other reasons, aspects, and perceptions I decry;
my true self is that banner of moral victory I expose to anybody,
although I've been laughed at and shunned by an unsensible society.
It surprises me that the poorest
have more on the palms of their hands than the richest:
how I despise selfishness and greediness!
If folks think that beggars are worthless human beings,
they have not understood that the wheel of fate spins
and stops when all appears to be in their favor;
how humiliating is to take the beggar's place
and beg for a cup of coffee, will they give
him a pitiful look, and hand him a dollar?
Does kindness exult a meek soul, if greed overtakes
that virtue and becomes an abhorrent decision
of pure selflessness posing no subtle meaning?
Shouldn't we give generously, not judging the ones
who have fallen prey to fate's cruel mischievousness?
Can one be hesitant to read the awful devastation
on the vagrant's face and not see him shivering,
behind the tattered clothes: there's a wretched soul suffering!
I excel at love because I deem it an essential
part for a happy existence in both physical and spiritual;
lewd lifestyles may be repugnant to me in significant ways,
but they rest with the individual who has no morals;
live life abundantly and harmoniously, pity the less fortunate
and God will be compassionate with you: if you get rid of pride!
I excise extreme prudence and I don't judge anybody,
because my true self is that banner of moral victory!
Being so awfully insecure
among confident people
seems ridiculous and brittle;
I'm very humble by nature,
it will not take me anywhere:
I'll end up gathering crumbs!
I'm too stubborn, still refusing to pay
for these silly and shameful faults;
I would cry out loud to feel anger,
not sit at a corner counting doubts!
I should blame you instead, dear:
because I'm getting hit hard by reality!
I won't cry on your shoulder, just be forgiving
when I seek some empathy, it's too humiliating;
if a man cries is because is a liar when he swears:
he'd rather carry inside silly and shameful faults!
Admit that you've been constantly cheating,
sneaking out at night while I was sleeping;
you dropped a sleeping pill in my Martini,
snuck out and flagged down a yellow taxi!
These silly and shameful faults
have given me sleepless nights;
don't kiss me to cover up the ugly truth:
it's a parody not as sweet as Baby Ruth!
I grew up a child of the ’60’s
together my life and the hippie movement dawned…
now when I look back at that time I wonder…where have all the hippies gone?
Those long haired tie-dyed idealists who walked around with our feet bare
who grew our own organic vegetables…who wore flowers in our hair.
Who sang and danced and laughed…who kidded and teased and joked
whose spirituality was enhanced by all that grass we smoked.
Who ate our share of granola…who drove an old VW van
who believed in peace and love and Woodstock…
and who would never listened to The Man.
Who were excited by the universe…who were filled with loving thoughts…
who lived for today and for each other and…did I mention all that pot?
Where have all the hippies gone?…all those innocent…free-spirited pups?
I imagine what happened…happens to every generation…we hippies all grew up.
Our long hair is now white or gone…our jokes are shared in tweets
our spirits aren’t as free as they once were…and we now wear shoes upon our feet.
We still like organic vegetables…but we’ll also eat at delis
and the only pot we carry now…we carry around our bellies.
Most of us drive comfortable cars instead of those old flowered vans
Oh, we still eat our share of granola…but now we throw on a little bran.
And we certainly don’t dance as much…we never know when we might slip
for there is nothing more humiliating…than a hippie with a broken hip.
Never fear however! It may be a little harder to pick out
what was once our claims to fame
but despite the ravages of age…we are hippies just the same.
Sure life has a way of interfering and our priorities rearrange…
but I believe the spirit we brought to our generation
and our ideals have never changed.
So here’s a toast to all the hippies out there…we may be heading over the hill
but we still believe in peace and love and I’m guessing…
we always will!
If somebody has loved
less than I have, then to him
nostalgia is regret
something that was never given up,
only left down his memory lane
with an unbearable pain
and a feeling of shame...
crying more pitifully than a lost pup!
Could I turn away and feel well...
making believe that nothing
as profound as tenderness
won't allow tears to fall
and get rid of bitterness?
Do men cry and won't tell?
Shouldn't they stop blushing?
Being human is never humiliating!
If somebody has held
on an intimate secret
and refused to reveal it,
he should have the courage
to free it from its darkness
and declare it without rage!
Confirming every truth is a kind
of relief, an effort to end the struggle
that was an expanding bubble
ready to burst and vanish from sight!
Nostalgia is regret,
a mood longing for a distant past;
has anyone ever seized it,
not letting escape it from his tight fingers?
Do moments fleeing into memory remain on silent lips?
When earth is dearly smiling
thee put doubtfulness to our joys
chattering humanity then and now
a memory of thee could have
visited moon tomorrow
it is possible to remember it, the wild
even when state hid her
despair, that is filling the world with sorrows
Oh! a false Polina! of unholiness
can earth forget thy injury?
forget that window to sink?
even science with her uproar
and enthusiasm to change the world?
shrink, fear and express jittery when informed?
or one expression
earth morns a scene
as if it can withstand shame
to hear and bear a story and tale of who
may have thought and acted so
dent is huge and humiliating
always there though
thee may have wished to swallow
and wanted to claim freedom to scatter in air
now I have no doubt thee is like a stormed
boat to no one country
let me not recall
despair of attention and deciept
surrounding its history since so
I fear tis rising sorrows
to overwhelm the blossoms?.