Month: March 2019

I asked the dog why she barked at the moon,

And she said, because it’s the moon.

You’re begging the question, I said.

Didn’t your mother teach you anything,

When you were in the kennel?

She gave me that look I take to mean

Give me a break, will you.

Why is the moon round, she asked,

And I wondered if it was a trick question.

I said, I don’t really know, come to think of it.

Don’t know? she said. Are you kidding me?

The moon is round because it’s the moon!

She had been standing but now she sat,

Proud of herself, I suppose. Deserving a treat.

That’s another logical fallacy, I said.

Circular reasoning. Surely you learned that somewhere.

At least I had an answer, she said, sounding miffed.

You didn’t know anything.

You didn’t even try to figure it out.

Okay, I said, it’s out there spinning in space

And over millions of years all the corners

And high spots get worn off and it eventually

Becomes a sphere. How’s that?

Idiotic, she said. The moon doesn’t rotate.

That’s why the dark side is always dark.

I’m very surprised you didn’t know that.

I was certain she was wrong but I didn’t know why

So I decided to change the subject.

Why do you chase cats, I asked?

Because they’re cats, she said, and she shook her head

And went off to her favorite corner to lie down.
 

 © Dennis Hathaway

 

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The eucalyptus leaves twitter against

The dull, flat sky. Is the sun’s absence

Punishable? The brain awakens more slowly

Than the muscles, the bones, the tissues

All twitching with energy pent up

In the inert but harrowing night, while the brain

Lumpen and inactive in the skull,

Sends rote signals here and there,

Without reflection. Random movements

Like the cat’s prowling through the labyrinths

Of back yards. Memory, knowledge, beauty,

Truth trapped on neural roads closed for repair.

It’s like the gray nest of wasps secluded in the eaves,

Light, sound, color, movement pokes it, keeps

Poking it until tractable thought comes pouring forth,

Buzzing, swarming, an angry chaos that erupts

Into the murmur of imagination, into speech, into

The reckoning that carries the bones and tissues

And organs into the tunnels and passages

Of another gray and bewildering day.

 

 © Dennis Hathaway

 

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I wish to be loved and admired,

And yet know that I am not.

I appear cold, indifferent, hostile even.

Now and then an acquaintance will say

Did someone die? And I will say,

What are you talking about?

Even though I know the answer.

Or I will smear my face with an

Idiot’s grin and flap my tongue,

Seeking what I most fervently crave–

To be left alone.

 

Sometimes that works,

And sometimes it doesn’t.

Meddlers don’t easily give up,

Appointing themselves to rescue

Others from solitude, that state

Of egocentric bliss, a place beyond

The shifting contours of expression,

Where the things they think they see,

Cannot be seen,

Where the things they think they know,

Cannot be known,

Where laughter and song cannot be shared,

With the hard, uncaring world.

 

 © Dennis Hathaway

 

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