Soapbox

This poem is about a migraine. I know, it doesn't make any sense. Sorry. Nothing does when you have a migraine.
Oh, and I've been reading a book about Homer's "Iliad", so…

It’s like falling off the edge of the world,
being swallowed by stones,
peeling off most of your skin
and bumping around on your bones.
Intelligent thought flees like a shadow,
time randomly stops and starts,
no sound exists but the screaming pulsation
of your  own incoherent heart.
All proud defense is reduced to ash,
and the scarlet scent of defeat,
Only agony lingers as each panting breath
sings like a knife through your teeth.

Alas, poor Troy, your mighty gates sundered
by no army camped outside
but swiftly and silently from within
where synapse and neuron collide.
Weep not, fair Ilium, for the effort of tears,
the mere sound as they drip through your hands
will set your ragged teeth to bleeding,
and fill your heart with sand.
Too late to offer burnt sacrifice,
all vision is burned away
in flashes of scarlet and aubergine thunder
as the angry gods join the fray.

But by and by, the chaos recedes,
for gods weary of the sport of war.
When there is strength left over from mere survival
and rational thought is restored,
you pull yourself out of the creaking rubble,
limp over the broken stones,
through the debris of your sense of control
and the lingering reek of brimstone.
You peer beyond the gates, the flag
of truce at last unfurled
to gape at how easily life went on without you
while you were falling off the edge of the world.

    Based on the song of the same name, which insisted on being written first.

    I used to love the mailman.
    I knew him by name, offered him a glass of water on hot days, even gave him cookies, sometimes. We joked together, said hello if we ran into each other at the grocery store.
    See, the mailman brought me letters… which were these little pieces of paper that people used to write things on for other people to read: news and greetings, thoughts and feelings, hopes and fears, and they’d fold them up into an envelope and stick a 13 cent stamp on the front, and a mailman would take it to them, so they could read it. Neat, huh?
   Now it wasn’t electronic, it wasn’t cellular and it certainly wasn’t instant. A letter didn’t twitter or tweet and you had to draw your own emoticon smiley faces… what's up with that? But you could hold it in your hand and know that the other person once held it too, while they were thinking about you.
    Which was very cool.
    After you read it you could tuck it in your pocket and take it with you to school to read again in some quiet moment, puzzling over the exact turn of phrase your friend had used, probe for hidden meaning. You could put it under your pillow at night and hope it would bring you dreams.
    Sometimes a letter even retained a bit of the scent of the person who wrote  it, by accident or design- something flowery in a card from your maiden aunt , perhaps a faint whisper of soap in a letter from a far-off object of desire. But it made them seem very real, very close.
    A letter was concrete, a small gift from a person who cared about you, something you could read and toss away- or keep for 20 years, then take out and open again. And like opening a door, they would be right there again, chewing on their pencil, deciding what to say, maybe drawing pictures in the margins, closing with a favorite line of poetry.
    Back then,  talking on the telephone meant talking in the kitchen with your family around, listening in, and the words “long  distance” made fathers frown in disapproval and tap their watch. So letters were the best connection to the people you missed.
   
    Today you can hear from people 20 times a day, a message they took entire seconds to compose: ~How R U LOL emoticon~ while standing in line at the bank or in between texts to seven other people. But a letter is personal, and tangible.
    Letters take a little time, and thought. That’s why they mean so much.

    On an impulse, I wrote a letter to an old friend a few months ago. She called me on the phone when she got it, told me how sweet and quaint it was for me write, She said some other things too, but I don’t remember what they were- see, she didn’t write them down.  Like in a letter.
    I used to love the mailman because he brought me love from far away. Now I don’t even know his name.

    So I'm at the store, crouched down in what I call the "Wishes, Prayers and Voodoo Science" aisle, trying to pick a face cream.

     Hmmm, let's see… this one says it contains gogi berries… this one has Pomegranate extract. If fruit is so good for my skin. maybe I should just wash my face with orange juice. What about sea kelp or amino peptide thingamy-doodles?  They promise to neutralize free-radicals… but I kind of like being a radical.
    This one will make me positively radiant, this one offers agelessness. So I could be radiantly 50… or dull but indeterminate?  You need a PhD and a Ouija board just to choose!
    Olay's "Regenerist" line assures me that it "beat the $700 cream".  At what- parchisi? That's all well and good, but I'm not asking to be regenerated. What exactly will it do that makes your cream worth even  $30?
    I see one that callsitself "Gravity Defying night Cream".
    I regard the little $18 package skeptically, decide I would be much more impressed with the name if the jar was hovering  a few inches above the shelf.
     It's not.
     Here's another called "Double Eye Lift". Well sure- who in the hell would want to lift just one eye? And over here, "Collagen Lip Filler".  Good Lord- do women really get holes in their lips as they age?  L'Oreal certainly wants us to think we do.

     Oh, the lies we tell ourselves! I am a 50 year old realist- I do not expect miracles to come in a little jar, whatever the price tag.  I just want something to make my skin feel less dry.  But if you spend enough time in this aisle, you begin to think of middle aged skin as a deadly disease.  I think there are enough actual diseases out there lurking that really, a few wrinkles are the least of our worries.

    Back to the choice at hand.
    Rice protein? Soy protein? Pro-calcium? Pro-retinol? Pro-lastyl? Well, at least they are all professional- wouldn't want any amateurs.  What about Royal Jelly? How's that for making you feel special? This one brightens, this one firms, this one reduces wrinkles, this one cleans your oven while you sleep…

    You know what? The first ingredient in every damn one of them seems to be "water". I flip a coin and go for a nice green jar and a modest price tag. Why not. All this confusion is giving me gray hair, and I an not going near the hair product aisle!

"Please come to Jesus"
he said. "Come to poetry"
I replied. Checkmate.

     Where did Tucker go and what did he have in his mouth?
     This is a pretty routine question around my house. Glancing up from the computer, the sewing machine or anything else that held my attention for long enough for Tucker to get into mischief, I see a tan blur dance by with something suspicious in his mouth. He likes to carry his toys all the time, but the dear dog has a particular attitude, a distinctive prance of step and bounce of ears that almost screams "Wheeeee!" when he's gotten hold of something he knows he's not supposed to have. My shout of "Hey!" or "Drop that!" only makes his joy nearly palpable.
    In these days of lovely spring weather, I often leave the back door open so the dogs can come and go, and Tucker, purloined goods in mouth, goes- out into the yard where the air is heavy with the scent of lilacs, falling  crabapple blossoms and bird songs.

   So I run out onto the deck and call his name and he turns toward me, revealing today's prize: a sock or panties from the laundry basket, one of my favorite Tiva sandals, an LL Bean catalog. Today as he ran by I could see he had a booklet in his teeth, and knew he had been poking around inside my guitar case.
   "Tucker! Give back Jesus!" I called sternly, and then laughed when I heard myself.

    One night, while sitting outside tuning my guitar before a coffeehouse performance, a man approached me and said hello. After chatting about poetry for a few minutes offered me a booklet: "21 Days with Jesus".
    "You should think about your personal relationship with Christ" he said.
    "Wow. Cool. You should think about coming to poetry night" I countered, which apparently convinced him I was a hopeless case, and he left. I flipped through the pages quickly and tossed it into my guitar case where it has spent the last 9 or 10 months, nestled beneath my Yamaha. Now it was getting slobbered on.

    " Tucker, come! Bring Jesus to me! You're biting holes in the Lord, and I don't think that's good karma. Give me Jesus!"
    Usually, if you simply tell him to come, he will, and surrenders the prize gladly in exchange for a pat on the head. Other times, perhaps if he thinks you really, really want what he has, he makes you work for it. Today he threw his head up, tossing the book and catching it by another corner and danced out of reach.
    I decided to act like it was a game..
    "Hey Tuck- bring me your new toy and I"ll throw it" I said in fake excitement, holding out my hand. Rocket understood the gesture and tone of voice and began barking excitedly. Tucker started toward me, then skittered happily out of reach when I tried to grab for the book.
      Psych! Too smart for ya, lady!

    Enough. I stalked over to the purple plum tree and retrieved one of his tennis balls. "Ready?" I cocked my arm back.
    Tucker froze. Was a ball in the air worth more than Christ in the mouth? I threw the ball and he ran- but with Jesus still in tow!! He dropped the book to pick up the tennis ball and I thought I had him, but when he saw I was running after him to get the book, he ran back for it and snatched it up again before I could grab it.

    I could see this was going nowhere. Determined that I could outwit a 10 month old dog I stalked angrily around the yard and collected 2 tennis balls. I tossed the first one and Tucker chased it, prize booklet in mouth. He made the switch and then turned to see if I was going to go for the book again. Instead I tossed the other ball in the opposite direction. Rocket barked, Tucker ran for it and I scooped up Jesus.

    I stuffed the book in my back pocket and played fetch with Tucker for a few minutes to let him burn off some energy and then took the book back inside. I noticed that, underneath the slobber and teeth marks, the back cover said,
    "We hope that you will share this book with others".
    Well heck- I guess could have let him keep it then.