Category: arts and letters

I opened my presidential campaign

With a speech that I wrote with a quill pen

And ink I made from frozen blueberries

And vinegar and another ingredient I’m

Keeping secret for reasons that I’m not

Prepared to disclose. I chose this method

To evoke the Founding Fathers, those

Great men of the past who approved of slavery

And didn’t think women ought to vote and used

The words Thus and Heretofore and Whereas

And a few too many times.

 

I rehearsed the speech for my wife,

Who fell asleep after the first paragraph,

Which, admittedly, went on for half a page.

My audience was then the dog, who doesn’t

Bother to vote and would rather gnaw

On a stale bone than keep up with current events.

I aimed for an exalted tone, beginning with,

“Nothing I say here will be long remembered,”

And moving through some platitudes about

God and Homeland that I consider hogwash

Although I’m bright enough not to say that

Directly, but to imply it through subtle employment

Of metaphor.

 

The state of the union, I said, is so bad

That nothing can redeem it. In other words,

Nothing I can do as president will make

A fig’s worth of difference although I promise

To appoint a Supreme Court justice, if I have

The opportunity, who at some point in his or her

Life has watched Beavis and Butthead and laughed

Out loud. Or in the alternative, who has worn a

Shirt wrong side out for an entire day without noticing

That fact. Anyone who has gone to Yale will

Be automatically disqualified for the court

Or my cabinet or any other government position

Which I am entitled to fill. I have no personal

Animus toward that institution, but enough is enough.

 

I was ready to conclude on a soaring note,

Talking about the need to investigate everything

That hasn’t already been investigated, which,

I admit, may not amount to that much, but

At that point the dog sat up and began to bark.

Shut up, I said, and being a good dog she complied,

Which gave me an idea, an addendum to my speech,

A promise that when any cabinet member or

Senator or aide or constituent says anything about anything,

I’ll just tell them to shut up.

 

 © Dennis Hathaway

 

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The parrots come screeching over the back yard,

A pair of them, mates perhaps, or siblings.

I looked in Wikipedia, they are monogomous,

But like us? Highly imperfect, veering after

Another of their kind, caught in the fantasy

Of a thrill that might soar but sooner or later

Will land with a thud. They live in the

Giant fan palm down the block; the man

In the nearest house brought out his gun

And tried to shoot them; he was driven mad

By their loud shrill colloqies but his

Neighbors failed to understand, they warned him,

The police would be called if he tried again.

The man moved and the parrots stayed,

Their green feathers glossy in the sunlight,

Their cries of ecstasy or anguish or maybe

Just rote noises like the dog’s bark that

Erupts for no reason in the middle of the night.

Or no apparent reason, I should say,

Because how can we know what enters

The canine brain, the skull of the parrot

With its prehistoric beak, useful for cracking

Nuts and seeds, I learned, a fact of no

Importance, no utility in a world we believe

To be of our own making when it fact it

Belongs to the parrots that screech from

The regal heights of their lofty tree.

 

 © Dennis Hathaway

 

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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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There was no collusion, they say,

And what does it mean, exactly?

That there was no praise of bigots,

No fawning over murderous dictators,

No contempt for the weak, the helpless,

No violent bending of the truth?

 

There was no collusion, they say.

As children search for lost parents,

As bombs fall like summer rain,

As mothers weep and fathers

Wander bewildered in a world

Scrubbed clean of empathy and kindness

A world of avarice and cruelty

Celebrated in song and image,

A world burning up and drowning,

A world to enter only at your peril.

 

 © Dennis Hathaway

 

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The image in the mirror

Is you or it might be someone else

How can you tell?

Have you memorized yourself

Are you certain that an imposter

Hasn’t appropriated the ego

That sets you apart from me

And him and her and them

And tried to use your credit card

And sleep with your husband

Or wife. Voted for a candidate

You cannot abide, even committed

A crime. The only way you’ll know

Is if you turn yourself in.

Let someone pore over your DNA,

Your most personal possession,

More personal than a certain shirt

And the watch that tells imperfect time

But has some forgotten meaning.

Best to avoid mirrors altogether,

Forget the length of your nose

And the droop of your chin

And the baggy weight of your cheeks

And the lips half open with an observation

That vanished before it got that far.

 

 © Dennis Hathaway

 

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Where shall we go today?

To the beach to watch the waves

Break one after another, sloshing

Onto the sand like spilled foam

From a glass of beer, a moment

Of seething drama, then the

Quick furtive withdrawl, as if

The sea knows that it has

Exposed too much.

 

Or shall we trudge into the mountains

On a broken trail, wishing for silence

Instead of the drone of an airplane

And the thrash of a helicopter

Looking for a fool who has stumbled

Who has lost his bearings and will die

Without realizing his fantastical dreams.

 

Somewhere in the sanctum of chaparral

The mountain lion creeps upon the

Unsuspecting hare, and the simpleminded

Lizard allows its tail to go missing,

Certain that a new one will grow,

And the gopher snake peers out of its hole

At humans oblivious to all but the

Sound that runs through wires to their ears.

 

Where are we? The melting sky drips

Onto the ruined earth, which pushes

Forth weeds like children, the ones whose

Parents seek admiration and esteem

For an act so common that no license is required,

No training, nothing but a desire to emulate

The endless repetition of the sea,

The jagged rise of the mountains,

That sink, slowly, ponderously,

Into the darkness of the light.

 

 © Dennis Hathaway

 

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You can lose your money,

You can lose your temper,

You can lose your mind,

You can lose your sense of direction

You can lose track

Of almost anything.

 

Once I lost my balance

On the edge of a mountain cliff

And fell thousands of feet.

Once I lost my appetite

For no apparent reason

And ate nothing but rice cakes,

Because they have no taste.

Once I lost a favorite pen,

And couldn’t write anything

But notes to myself

Which made no sense.

 

I’ll gladly lose myself in ecstasy,

Once I find its hiding place.

Someday I’ll lose weight,

But not until the bacon

In the refrigerator is gone,

And the chocolate chip cookies

Have disappeared.

 

Proust became famous

Searching for lost time.

But how do you lose time?

Does it hide somewhere,

Along with single socks

And books you always

Meant to read but didn’t,

Because you watched TV.

Is it in the dark recesses of the closet,

Or under the bed,

Or has it simply diffused

Like an odor, into the air?

 

You can have too little time,

Or too much time,

But you can’t lose time,

Because anything lost,

Can surely be found.

 

 © Dennis Hathaway

 

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