'…a major destabilizing influence'
I was driving to town. I rounded a curve and jammed the brakes. There was a raccoon walking away Right in the middle of the road. I slowed down to the speed of her gait. I had a good chance to look at her. I determined she was a she With a dark outer …
One morning, at breakfast,
Creator took a bite out of his toast.
He held it up to his wife proudly.
Moon, he said.
He took another bite.
Mushroom, he said.
His wife frowned.
He took another bite.
Anteater, he said.
And another: Acacia.
Now his wife glared at him.
Acacia!?
Creator was squirming in his chair.
He had to pee.
He took several quick bites,
Leaving only the trunk
And a big bulb at the top
Before he hurried from the table.
Human, he said over his shoulder.
His wife stared at his plate.
I feel sorry for that skinny thing! she said.
And that giant brain is only going to get him in trouble!
She nibbled the top much smaller and sighed,
Not looking forward
To when her husband returned.
Ok, now I’m ready.
I’m breathing,
I’m thinking.
I’m waving to you.
See?
See?
There, you see me!
Now let’s look at each other.
You, over there,
me over here.
Breathing,
thinking.
Now let’s wave to someone else.
Get their attention.
Shout if necessary.
Strike a cymbal.
There,
they see me.
Does your person see you?
This is great, isn’t it?
Yeah, this is great.
The soldier was tired of his bloody gun.
He saw a young stranger
And handed him the gun.
Here take this,
The stranger said,
I will take it, but what will I do with it?
The soldier had walked away.
I will give this gun to the ocean.
He gave the gun to the ocean.
I will take it but what will I do with it?
The stranger had walked away.
I will wash the blood off this gun,
I will give it to the depths.
Ocean gave the gun to the depths.
I will take it but what will I do with it?
The sea had closed its ears.
The depths held the gun for a hundred years.
I will give the gun to time.
Time said, I will take it
But what will I do with it?
The depths had closed its heart.
Time gave the gun to the reef.
I will take it, said the reef
But what will I do with it?
Time had passed on.
The reef held the gun for a thousand years
And then a thousand more.
Now the gun said,
I am tired of being a gun,
But what will I do with myself?
I will give myself to peace.
Peace said to the gun, I will take you.
I know what to do with you.
Peace held the gun tenderly,
Tenderly, tenderly,
Because the world had finally changed.
–Gary Lindorff
This is an open letter
to those whose egg shell chest
cracks
under the pressure
of their breath
breathing down borrowed air
like they aren’t worth
the photosynthesized miracle
of carbon and oxygen
This is an open letter
to those whose sense
of “this is who I am”
is up for grabs
at the hands of too many
unsecured moments
and people
fluttering in and out of their lives
like migratory birds
or rainy seasons
This is an open letter
to those whose childhood was marked
by the mental health of their parents
whose ability to survive
relied on accommodations
they made to another’s mind
like
feeling out a form in the dark,
and learning
how to dance with it
This is an open letter
to those whose bridges
never felt sturdy enough
who never learned to take the chance
to walk across
even our most dilapidated
of structures.
There is a world coming that should be.
I can see it.
It’s close to being the world we have
But different in some important ways:
More food for the hungry,
More love,
More honesty,
Less gas and oil and meaningless death and wars,
More love,
Oh, I already said that, more love.
And let it be soon
Before it’s too late
And the door closes
For the creation of would-be worlds.
But whether there is a new world
The time for the end to this old world has arrived
With a clap of thunder,
So loud it makes your brain go numb.
It makes your ears ring
Like the great gong
In the courtyard of a Buddhist temple
To an ant climbing on the gong,
When the gong is struck 33 times
For the 33 faces of the Buddha.
Sometimes being in the United States
Is like walking barefoot
Over broken glass,
Or walking on hot sand.
Having a conversation with someone
Who doesn’t get a thing about me
Feels like being brushed by nettles.
Am I even wearing clothes?
Everything gets through!
The climate here is chilling.
Where am I?
Is this still home?
Where did all those corners come from
That I keep bumping into.
I’m not accident prone;
It’s the environment that has become
Angular, unnavigable.
The news is acidic and keeps coming back up!
It’s like someone installed an invisible fence:
I keep getting zapped.
Yesterday I was listening to someone’s story
About how they dealt with a pest
And my heart skipped a beat
When their supposedly amusing story
Morphed into a confession
Of unconscious cruelty.
Like a splinter
Burying itself in my unsuspecting hand.
Or simply seeing what they’ve done
To places that used to be beautiful
Feels just plain shitty.
My native land can be a very painful place to live,
And I’m an educated White man.
I can’t imagine what it’s like,
Can’t imagine what it’s like,
Can’t imagine what it’s like
To be a person of color
In the United States.
—Gary Lindorff
My wife, Shirley, and I attended a rally and march in Rutland Vermont, Saturday, 3/24/18, the day of March For Our Lives, a true milestone in American history, not just because of the size of the turn-out nationwide and world-wide, but because all of the marches and rallies were largely organized and led by youth. If there wasn’t a movement before, there is now.
This hauntingly beautiful poem is by Athalia Allen, freshman at (Vermont) Rutland High School. Actually these words are lyrics to a song she composed and sang for the rally in Main Street Park, to a gathering of 500.
I Hear You Crying
Breathe in blood red moon,
I hear you crying.
Breathe out dark sky,
I feel you shining.
On my face
When the night falls.
And the brook calls your name.
Tiptoe waiting wind
I smell the rain.
Challenge me crashing waves
I feel your spray.
On my face
When my dress and my soul fly in the wind.
Closed are my eyes,
For I too am crying.
You can’t pull a trigger and murder the sun.
Yet you can put a hole in the ground.
My soul is speaking and so is my mind.
Yet my voice doesn’t make a sound.
Breathe in blood red moon,
I hear you crying.
Breathe out dark sky,
I feel you dying.
You’re exhausted
When the night falls.
And the brook calls your name.
Breathe in blood red moon,
I hear you crying.
—Athalia Allen
It’s come to that.
I’ve been sick of my country for a long time,
Ever since I stopped being a kid.
When I learned about the atomic bombing of Japan.
Then Vietnam brought it home.
I was writing Romantic poetry
Until the age of 12.
Then my poetic soul
Gently urged me to wake up.
I woke up like Neo in the Matrix
In a bath of amniotic fluid
Covered with suctioning electrodes
Which I pulled off,
Gasping for air
Like a premature newborn
Adult human being.
All Romantic notions
Of One Nation Under God,
Hand to the heart,
Swearing allegiance became just swearing.
Something hit the window of my house of mirrors.
I picked up the still-warm
Bird of my youthful soul
And got sick right there,
Sick of my country.
I have nothing to prove to my country.
No loyalty.
My country needs to win me back.
Hand over heart, face mask for protection.
Stop making us sick.
—Gary Lindorff
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you,
me,
a random student,
mother,
teacher,
uncle,
friend . . .
Again.
Again.
Again.
America.
—Gary Lindorff