My fellow Americans, you can have justice,

Or you can have liberty, but not both.

Why, you ask? Look at the symbols,

A blindfolded woman in a clinging dress,

That slips off her shoulder, exposes her thigh,

A person about to engage in a sado-masochistic exercise.

The scales in one hand, a sword in the other–

What’s that about? Will she lop off the head

of her consort? And the symbols of liberty,

A cracked bell, another woman wearing

Layers of robes that conceal her form.

Could she be pregnant? She’s looking up,

Not down at the poor and huddled in the harbor.

And that crown. Sharp spikes warning away anyone

Wanting a closer look. Which do you want?

Justice is only as blind as the old man hunched

Above the fray, harumphing at the nonsense

Appointment has forced him to endure.

When he closes his eyes does he pluck digestible

Fact from acres of weedy fiction, or does he imagine

The young woman at the table in less seemly attire?

Liberty is not just a matter of chains and shackles,

But concerns the oily machinery of the mind,

Where everything is possible until the pulleys

Try to spin and gears try to mesh and the

Cracked bell rings its inharmonious tune.

 

© Dennis Hathaway

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Doesn’t everyone lie?

The president, the senator,

The mayor, the priest,

The insurance salesman.

The prime minister,

The son and daughter

Who try to sneak into the house

Without waking the sleeper

Who is easily disturbed

By far more subtle things.

The creak of the rafters

In a bluster of wind,

The scratchings of a

Prowling animal,

The long soft moan

From the pillow beside him.

What is she dreaming?

Of being chased through a field

By a horde of madmen?

Or was it pleasure,

Provoked by the taste

Of another man’s lips,

The clasp of his arms

Around her naked body.

Will she tell the truth?

Will she say that she

Has never felt such ecstasy?

Or will she say she doesn’t recall,

Or that it doesn’t matter,

Because it was only a dream.

 

© Dennis Hathaway

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There’s nothing you can do,

If you set your mind to it,

Because the opposite of trouble,

Isn’t the peace you might expect,

But a faint ringing in the ears.

 

You must have a degree, and a license,

And the ability to distinguish

Between adjectives and verbs.

It helps to be a carnivore,

Because iron isn’t only good for skillets,

But for the blood that carries

Messages to the little rooms in the mind

Where the cleaning supplies are kept.

 

If you can’t hear you can’t listen,

Which might seem obvious enough,

But the obvious isn’t always enough,

Isn’t sufficient to the moment

That gives way to another moment,

So quickly that it’s impossible to know

If you’re in the past or present or future.

Perhaps all three at once.

 

That sounds like philosophy,

Or is it paleontology, or geography,

Or morphology, or hagiography?

Or photography, which enabled the selfie,

Which enabled the selfie stick,

Which enabled a person to look at herself,

Or himself, or itself, and be delighted,

Or disgusted, or puzzled by a resemblance

To Milton Friedman, who himself

Resembled Queen Victoria, but only

When she was asleep in her bed.

 
 © Dennis Hathaway

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Can you yodel?

Can you swim?

Can you play air guitar?

Can you speak French?

Can you do sudoku?

Can you make money?

Can you accept the fact that life consists of an infinite series of mishaps?

 

Do you save money?

Do you trust yourself?

Do you use profanity?

Do you wonder?

Do you know?

Do you have anything to say that hasn’t been said by somebody at some point in time, including yourself?

 

How are you fixed for canned tomatoes?

How many peas are in the average pod?

Will your car break down tomorrow?

Will anyone care if you don’t show up?

Did you tell your wife you love her?

Did you brush your teeth before you went to the bank?

Where is your mettle?

Where is your hair?

When will you stop smoking, or if you’ve already stopped, when will you stop drinking, or if you’ve already stopped, when you will stop wishing that the person next door who plays music too loud will have an accident and be seriously injured although not die.

 

What is art?

What is life?

 

Do you care?

 
 © Dennis Hathaway

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Life presents unpleasant and even despicable tasks,

Unstopping a plugged-up toilet, disciplining a child,

Calling customer service about almost anything.

 

But none compare with shopping for clothes.

Hyperbole? Many appear to love this onerous task.

My wife, for example. I say to each their own.

But what is a more loathesome sight than a display

Of men’s clothing? Try to find the right sizes,

Drag an armload to the dressing room,

Where the attendant and any loitering customers

Can be imagined to look askance at your dreadful sense of style.

 

Undress behind a door that may not have a lock,

Feeling exposed, as in that dream where you

Find yourself completely naked in a public place.

Trying to act nonchalant, trying to ignore the

Silent distaste that radiates from surrounding eyes .

But what if there was an earthquake, a fire?

What if you had to evacuate the place at a moment’s notice,

Run through the women’s department in your underwear,

Huddle outside in rain, or snow, or lethal cold?

 

Pull on a pair of pants festooned with tags and labels,

Stare into the vast mirror that seems to play a trick,

Turning a specimen of admirable fitness

Into an example of poor posture and bad eating habits.

The “Before” in the Before and After photographs.

 

The pants are always too long, or not long enough,

The shirts strain across the chest or balloon like tents,

Even though the label alleges that they are your size.

You are faced with this unsavory choice–

Traipse back to the racks and shelves and try again,

Or flee, hoping your haste doesn’t suggest that

You are probably a shoplifter, and are wearing

A number of pilfered garments beneath your own clothes,

As if that would even be possible.

© Dennis Hathaway

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