Web Idylls III now in progress...

The series of poems only rolls on.

Something About a Happy Christmas

Something about a happy Christmas,
that's what I meant to say,
something about the season
and how it's a good one this year,
but like a rat I found a way
to screw it up, because that's
just who I am, a Who who's a Grinch
with a heart two sizes too small,
shuffling my way around.

I wanted to write something cheerful,
but I guess that won't happen today.
But tomorrow's Christmas, and in a week,
New Year's in some way.

Seven Years

Seven years now,
and I still haven't
gotten over it.

I wasn't even there,
and am not bothered
by what resulted by it,
but I think it deserves
more than we've given it,
what happened
seven years ago.

That we're still living
almost exactly as we were
is something worth thinking
about, not the mere fact
that we survived, but
that it happened and it
seems to have had
no impact, just something
that happened, something
to hang a president over,
because he thought
something should result
from it, something to make
the world different.

But it was seven years ago,
and now nothing's much
different. We certainly
didn't change our mind
about him. We didn't change
anything. No,
prove me wrong.

It was a morning that
put me over an edge,
it was something that
I didn't understand
and still don't, and that's
what I think changed,
what we should take notice of.

Something changed,
and nothing did.
But it's seven years now,
and I still feel
much as I did then.

As if there is a difference,
and that's what we shouldn't
forget.

(what follows)

Okay! That's wraps up the second volume of a year-long poem-a-day project (remember Terror of Knowing as the first). I'm going to be switching gears next, attempting a new novel, Yes I Am Falling, in the same vein (as well as the NaNos that eventually produced The Cloak of Shrouded Men), and it will be posted at Monk in Exile on myspace. Whatever readers I had here, I hope I don't disappoint!

The Clintonians

Before you go on,
watch the films
JFK and
Thirteen Days,
which would serve
as an excellent
platform to
remember what
kind of man
the last great
president was,
beyond the scandals
a different era
might have ruined
him over.

The first one
revolves around
the day everything
changed, and that's
what history
is going to have
to remember. It
wasn't just a matter
of the Cold War
entering its
last phase, but
the political
future of the nation
forming, readying
for Nixon's final bow,
preparing for the old
lines to be redrawn.

It took a while.
Reagan got to sit
through the remainder
of the idealism, and
to some extent, H.W.
as well, but it wasn't
until Clinton emerged,
the heir apparent,
that the whole thrust
was put into motion,
a worthy challenge
everyone accepted.
He played every hand,
weathered every storm,
all to affirm what
should have already
been obvious, that
something had broken,
and that only his
successor could signal
the way back, a man
who stepped into
the coliseum ill-prepared
for the wolves. He
had already proclaimed
himself an outsider,
why were we surprised?
He was eaten alive,
sacrificed for his religion.

The Clintonians were
out for revenge. Revenge
for the events of the
second film, all the potential
lost and mired by an
untenable war. Me, I'd
rather be a Clay than a Calhoun,
a Nixon than an LBJ, but
it didn't end up being that easy,
just ask Lieberman. All we
have left are splinters,
waiting to be put back together,
to be taken out of our fingers.

I wish above all
that I could always remember:
my voice should not be heard.
It's better that way,
the way such voices go,
the way the public likes it.
Who am I to give them
what they need?
I am not a code,
I am not a knight;
they've already heard,
they just don't want to.
The truth is always
murdered, the truth
is always free.

Things were lost.
Things will be found.

I know that this is not goodbye.

Running to the Cemetary

Well, it's a lovely day
to appreciate the work
of a couple rock bands
bent on exploring the raw
material of experience,
led by Bono and Martin,
who can sometimes be
confused if you're not
paying close attention.
If Dylan is our modern poet,
then they are our philosophers,
delving inward and outward
into modern life, the questions
that plague us, the relationships
that slay us, as they always do.

One looks at the canvas
so irritatingly broadly
they capture a wicked sense
of the order that can emerge
from chaos, the other measuring
so methodically they can
sometimes get carried away.
Both exist in their own
dream worlds, and that's
to their benefit and for
anyone who appreciates them,
but for those who don't,
they miss the poignant message.

I wish I could get everyone
to hear what they do, but
most people can hardly bother
with what's around them, such as,
yes, me, because Sadie makes
me wish she weren't here and
that she would never leave,
never, not even to go home
where she lives now. If you
listen to these bands, you
would understand, because
they're saying what we
already know, but better.

Christopher Hitchens

Hey,
you won't
believe
this.

I found
someone
else
who may
actually
see things
as they
actually
are.

This dude
Chris Hitchens,
best known
to me
previously
as a book-
writing
atheist,
also spent
some time
explaining
all the
reasons
why it
wasn't
stupid
for Bush
to declare
war
on Saddam
Hussein.

It was
weird,
it was
surreal,
to find
this guy
espousing
everything
I'd believed
for five
years, all
the things
everyone
seemed
to think
weren't
important,
but were
there
all the
same.

I've
just
got to
thank you,
Chris,
for being
there.