Soapbox

I keep thinking about purple fingers,
on smiling, white-bearded men
and graceful dark-eyed women swathed in veils
all proudly displaying their purple fingers,
the symbol of true liberty,

our promise to them that from now on,
when they want to change the world,
they can do it with their fingers.

In a voice trembling with indignation
a man in a pinstripe suit speaks of liberty
and of his confederate heritage.
He says the Civil War was never about slavery-
and of course, it wasn't, for him.
Virginia, he says, stood tall against government oppression
and refused to kill their kin in South Carolina!
Instead they picked up their guns
and broke the Union and slaughtered their kin
in Delaware and Ohio,
all in the name of freedom,
and I keep hearing the ringing of bells and seeing white hoods
and wondering why no one asks him,
freedom for whom?

He speaks with righteous anger
of the tyranny of our current federal government
and of the atrocities of General Sherman
as if the burning of Atlanta
was Obama's campaign promise to the North.
He points his finger and says that the civil war,
like the American Revolution before it
was just people striving for freedom,
freedom from a government on the wrong path
but I keep thinking about purple fingers,
thinking that this man's blood must run violet by now.
I keep hearing bells,
the ringing of guns and the cracking of bells,
like the one that cracked on the day we promised each other
that from now on,
every American citizen would be born with a purple finger.

This man dismisses slavery
and excuses the secessionist, gun-soaked talk of today,
blames it all on oppression by the government
which we voted for with our fingers.
I keep hearing that bell,
the one that meant we would never again have to use a gun
to change whats wrong
and the sound of a weapon being loaded
And I keep seeing  white hoods,
because they're so close now that they can taste it,
so close to ripping those hoods off and saying
"OK, yeah, we hate him because he's black,
because for us, the tyranny of having someone else win the election
is worse than the tyranny of kings or the tyranny of chains,
and for us, the only freedom that matters
is our freedom to stop you from being different."

They love this nation like a psychotic boyfriend,
ready to beat her, rape her, attack anyone she even talks to.
They'll tear her apart, if they have to,
in the name of their devotion
but I keep thinking about those purple fingers
and the smiling men and solemn women…

we promised them that those fingers were all they'd ever need.

An open letter to Fred Phelps and the Westboro Baptist Church

Dear Mr. Phelps-
Today I bought a cute  little black dress
to wear to the funeral of whoever it is that died
and made you Jesus.

After all- at least with the Pope an entire college of cardinals have to vote
in order for him to be called God's Voice here on earth.
You seem to have elected yourself Pope of the World,
exhaulted above all others by virtue of being
the only one who somehow was able to suss out,
hidden in among all that New Testament crap about "love" and "peace",
and turning cheeks and judging not,
that God's true top priority for mankind was:
hitting on chicks.

Now me, I don't see why, if God hates fags so much
they weren't included in his famous Top 10 list.
Surely, if homosexuality is such a deal-breaker
it would rank above mere coveting!
But it never even got a "thou shalt not"
or made the final cut as a deadly sin.
Most of the rest of us were fooled by this, but you-
you have the discerning mind, the vision
to know that what God cares about most is
persecuting people who don't persecute gays.

And the true profits are always reviled, aren't they?
The KKK says that they repudiate your activities
(though I wonder which activities they object to-
the activity where you show up at churches and cemeteries
and attack grieving families for the sin of careing about, well, anything besides homosexuality-
or the part where you don't lynch people or tie them to car bumpers?)

Tell me Mr. Phelps, how does it feel to be so low on the evolutionary scale
that even the KKK won't be seen with you
for fear you'll make them look bad?
You and your followers are the child-molesters of the religious crazy world:
the ones even the father-rapers and mother-stabbers
would shank in the shower if they got a chance.

But are you filled with hate- or fear?
Are you evil, or incredibly stupid- or cunningly calculating?
Or, is it possible that you truly know not what you do?
On Judgment Day, will God call you up to the throne and say
"Fred, who the hell died and made you me??"
and smite you with an iron fist of justice?
Or will He put a gentle hand on your head, sigh,
and guide you to the place of eternal healing
where sad, tortured souls are at last washed cleaned?

I do not know the answer to that question.
I only know that each time I simply speak your name
I feel the urgent need to gargle.
And I have my little black dress ready, either way.

Like Eliza Doolittle sauntering forth for a day at the races
he sails among the seaweed fronds
bedecked in bizarre and beautiful finery.
He does not deign to flap or swim as the common folk do
but glides with a jet-pack of tiny, whirring fins
so as not to disturb his regal composure.
Cleopatra eyes lined with kohl
dart and flirt
as he peeks alluringly from among the waving branches,
Just another waving branch,
a skeleton with wings.
Pregnant, jilted father:
twisting, winking eyes
inside a hundred pink pearl eggs
are the wedding jewels he wears,
parting gift of the dead-beat wife
now haunting some other patch of weeds.
He adjusts his hat to a more rakish angle
And glides away, invisible grand-dame of his tiny, silent world.

Parenting is about letting go.
The first unbinding is at birth,
when you release the child from under your heart.
You surrender them a thousand times in those first few weeks
to  eager armies of aunts, uncles and friends.
You clasp your hands together akwardly,
grinning fiercely to stop yourself
from begging them not to drop him.

Just when you've mastered that letting go with some equanimity
your baby begins to explore the world on their own
and your arms are wrenched open in another type of release,
one guaranteed to result in bumps and bruises
and some measure of tears on both sides.

Baby becomes child, and mother encounters
school days, sleep-over, weeks at summer camp with strangers
and again and again you must open your arms, just a little wider
and surrender knowing that their hair is combed, jacket zipped,
that they are saying "please" and "thank you".
Then the driver's license, first job and off to college~
Open wide, and release
seeing that they get up on time and get their homework done:
let go of knowing what kind of people they hang around with,
seeing to it they eat right,
knowing without being told if they are happy, or are struggling.

Then comes the day of that final letting go.
The car is packed, a little extra cash tucked in a pocket~
Now don't argue with me, I want you to have it!
quick hugs all around and the car pulls out,
your grown-up child drives away,
off to their own home,
their own life.

You wave with a composed if slightly bleary smile and go back inside
unsure exactly what to do with these
open, empty, vestigial arms.
So you call your own mother, try to explain what you are feeling,
and as she offers you words of comfort
something in her voice makes you realize
that she is still in the process of letting you go.

Our poems are our children.
Conception of a pensive moment, striking image or casual word,
gift of happy accident or design,
you feel the first stirring of their life within you
puzzling, exciting,
as the idea germinates and grows.

In due time they make their entrance into the world
a little sticky, perhaps, when first they see the light of day.
Like Athena from the mind of Zeus
spring poems forth fully formed and ready for battle,
but many come into the world bearing little resemblance
to the verse they will one day become.

You clean them up and nurture them
give them time to grow and mature,
love them for what they are
and wonder how much more they might be.
You offer them wisdom gleaned from your mistakes
and sometimes spend restless nights
wondering why, though you try to teach them the steps
they remain awkward and clumsy, even to your loving eyes.

Every parent knows that the most beloved  child is flawed.
Coming from you, how could they not be?
Coming from you, how else could they be?
And while many live happy lives in mediocrity and obscurity,
still, we all want our children to be respected
and even admired by others.

It's one thing to know that your child is imperfect;
it is another to allow the callous intonations of stranger
who do not love and understand that special child,
who do not appreciate that profound moment of conception
from which they sprang
and love them for being the expression of that moment-
to dictate who your child must become.

I know there are children
who return better for a stint done in military school,
who come back stronger and more keenly honed,
for time spent at the blacksmith's hearth,
melted down and reshaped against the anvil,
a weapon better able to pierce the heart.

A child of mine,
off-spring of my own imperfect making
would emerge, not tempered, but immolated,
it's heart a moth's moment of bright sacrifice
at such a forge

I  find that I prefer my children happy, imperfect weapons,
blunt-edged, perhaps,
but flawlessly true to the moment from which they were conceived
rather than see them hammered and forged
into a more brilliant but lifeless blade.