Do What You Can, Not What You Can't

 

Do what you can, not what you can't

said the woman holding my hand

when I was sick and shaking from withdrawal.

You can do one hour. One minute. 

Don't worry about your whole life tonight.

Do what you can, not what you can't

said the man with the age in his eyes

when I was carrying duty like a cross.

How do you know God wants you to stay married?

Listen to your heart and you'll have your answer.

Do what you can, not what you can't

said the woman with the side shave

when I finally fell in love for real, and with a woman.

It'll be all right, Pookie, she said. Maybe

she'll dig you. But first, dig yourself.

Do what you can, not what you can't

I said to the girl who thought I was somebody wise

after her dad threw her out; after some punks beat her up.

I told her she had shine, never think otherwise

even when the world tries to keep you in a boy-cage.

Do what you can, not what you can't

I say to myself as the years catch up

and I can't rake the yard without a dozen breaks.

I have tamed no tigers but became one myself

Quietly, while drinking coffee, while writing this poem. 

________

for Queen Cool Dora over at Dverse. She wants maxims, bromides, mantras, mottos. :-)

Music: David Mullen Alone, my personal anthem

Dear Morgan

 

Dear Morgan,

Perhaps you will be surprised at receiving this letter from me. I can almost see the widening of your eyes upon seeing my return address as you flip through the day's mail. It has been a long time since we were sorority sisters and best friends. So much has changed, and never more so than now. 

It's a difficult time for you, I realize. You must be up to your neck in casseroles, but I'm certain that you found the ideal black dress to wear for the funeral and the somber gathering at the house afterward. Tears aren't your way, but the veil was a nice touch. Of course, I knew better than to attend but I know you, dear. 

Malcolm came to see me. Yes, even after your dramatic ultimatum. He stood right here, in front of the desk where I'm composing this letter.  I saw what your tender love had done to him. I saw it clearly on his face. Handsome, good-hearted Malcolm. It was a particular brand of sweetness that was your gift to him, yes?

Again, I can just picture the wrinkle that would be marring your brow right now had you not botoxed it into behaving. You're wondering what I'm getting at. You're such a careful woman, Morgan, a place for everything and everything in its place. A little rigid, dare I say brittle underneath the frosty calm. Malcolm told me how you scorned his baby, the restored Indian motorcycle he loved so much. You never did like sharing, even when we were little, did you? What did it matter that the machine made him happy if it had no benefit for you? Well, you could have taken at least one ride with him but lectures are closer to your heart. The things that might happen. 

In any event, that's all water under the bridge now, isn't it Morgan? As I mentioned, he came to me and stood right here. His face, oh his wonderful face. It is all fresh in my mind, as his visit occurred only this past Sunday. Now I would give anything to see your expression as you read those words. I always did know how to ruffle your cool. I think that's one reason why Malcolm liked me and always confided in me the things he felt he could not say to you. I know you resented that. The sharing again, you're just no good at it. 

Malcolm stood there holding his cracked motorcycle helmet in his hand and his face was awful. I will never forgive you for what you did, Morgan. That beloved face, all bloody and ruined. Even despite that, he wore such an expression of grief, and betrayal. It hurt my heart so badly to see him like that. I stood up to go to him, but he held up his free hand gesturing me not to. I just stood there trembling. He told me, Morgan. He told me about what you did, how you put sugar in his gas tank. Just a little. Just enough so that he would be able to start out on his Saturday night ride, build up some speed, and then... how his engine locked up and he was thrown over the front of the bike and onto the road where he was hit by oncoming traffic and killed. Your "sweetness", sugar. 

Oh, I've already called the police impound lot where Malcolm's motorcycle was taken. I've explained to them what to look for, though I had to be inventive about how I knew. I couldn't very well tell them that I got the information from a ghost. But I can tell you. The police should be arriving at that big house of yours presently. Keep your head, dear. Don't panic. Go quietly up to your bedroom and put on that nice black dress again. Then go downstairs, confident that you're looking your best and wait for them. Remember, appearances are everything! Even the appearance of a once-handsome, good-hearted dead man. 

_______

for What's Going On? --Letters

Music: The Chantays Pipeline

Donald Trump's Ass

 Donald Trump's ass is discovered inside a trash can.

It turns to us and speaks:

"Many people say that I am the greatest asshole they've ever seen."

Donald Trump's ass pauses for effect,

then ejects several golf balls from itself at random.

"I only like white golf balls," Donald Trump's ass explains.

It then adds that Donald Trump's Ass White Golf Balls can be purchased on the Donald Trump's Ass website. 

Thousands line up to kiss Donald Trump's ass. 

They deny that it tastes like shit. 

They line up to buy Donald Trump's Ass Shit Sandwiches

(great with Donald Trump's Ass Bleach Slurpees.)

But where is the GOP?

Shouldn't someone notify them that Donald Trump's ass is here,

discovered inside this trash can? 

The call goes out. Everyone is searching for the GOP,

but finally, in the end (The Donald's own, in fact!),

they are found

like little dung beetles

nine miles up it. 

______

for Sanaa Rizvi's "Allen Ginsberg & the Beat Generation" prompt at Dverse. 

Chamber Duet II

 See how I love you darling

skittering down the rotten leaf path with a lamp

wearing my delicate gloves and old cardigan

against the chill and damp?

Don't hand me shit about loving sailors now

with their faces like pale wrinkled moons

floating up to sing you shanteys

while you percolate in shallows like a wax Quadroon.

My frail sweetheart, what's become of you?

You used to gild heaven just by looking up.

Now, if we touch, it's with a cypress branch

to roll love's body in the muck.

We really cared once, you know it's true

with every movement meant to please.

Now your sailors adore you with gassy grins

and stultifying ease.

I'll use tiny clippers on a driftwood cello

a balsa fake to echo and bore

a waterside horror to mock two biddies

our love song evermore.

______

for Dverse Poetics "After Saint Valentine left the building." 

Advice

 When Chaos shivers you with a thunderous right,

think on beauty, 

think on loveliness.

When your knees forget themselves,

when your bowels disintegrate,

fall as if flying.

When your chin hits the pavement,

when the mighty boot comes down,

think on joy.

Forgive freely.

_________

for dverse quadrille--"shiver"

Transubstantiation

 "Every time I planted a seed, he said kill it before it grows" --Bob Marley

Here is your cradle, narrower than a matron's squint.

Worlds have been birthed from less.

Tilt your tarmac cap, child. 

Suckle from stars a foreign milk

distant evanescence 

from saudade milled.

Here is your birth-door, jagged as a shiv,

and your unseen bloom, opening in spite of itself,

a spirit shaken loose, dumb with innocence,

just holy enough to make someone want to kill it.

_______

for Sunday Muse #157.

Musee des Larmes

Your Museum of Tears exhausts the visitor
with unrelieved monochrome. 
Repeat patrons squat and rock, 
pulling their hair,
begging for blindfold and bullet.

There is a booth to check your solutions
which will not be examined.
In lieu of a claim ticket,
special jugs of further tears are dispensed.
Bearers long for the grave or asylum.

Security stops visitors for interrogation.
Why did you make a face at exhibit 45?
Why did you skip the explanatory plaques?
Don't you see how unfair it all is,
and how innocent the artist?

In your Museum of Tears,
the railings are salt-rimmed,
the light fixtures red and swollen.
Several displays repeat in a loop.
Many have hung themselves from the balcony balustrades.

I cannot be a member.
I cannot be a patron.
I cannot be a docent,
Though I hear there is a brand new wing
where whole aquariums bear my name.
_________

for Sunday Muse #98.