It looks like this will also be streamed to Ustream here.
She must have been kicked unseen or brushed by a car.
Too young to know much, she was beginning to learn
To use the newspapers spread on the kitchen floor
And to win, wetting there, the words, "Good dog!
We thought her shy malaise was a shot reaction.
The autopsy disclosed a rupture in her liver.
As we teased her with play, blood was filling her skin
And her heart was learning to lie down forever.
Monday morning, as the children were noisily fed
And sent to school, she crawled beneath the youngest's bed.
We found her twisted and limp but still alive.
In the car to the vet's, on my lap, she tried
To bite my hand and died. I stroked her warm fur
And my wife called in a voice imperious with tears.
Though surrounded by love that would have upheld her,
Nevertheless she sank and, stiffening, disappeared.
Back home, we found that in the night her frame,
Drawing near to dissolution, had endured the shame
Of diarrhoea and had dragged across the floor
To a newspaper carelessly left there. Good dog.
Oh, and one more thing. I send my love/However long and far it takes—through light,/Through time, thorough all the faithlessness of men
I’m always thinking about Lot’s wife,
wonder what her neighbors thought
when she packed up her tunics and cooking pots
and left town without so much as a fare thee well.
Dave, the guy I work with says, “It’s because
she was a sinful woman in a sinful town.
You know where the word sodomy comes from.”
I tell him, “Sodomy’s been made legal in Texas.
I read it in the paper yesterday.”
Dave has been known to get down on his knees
and pray before a computer, but it never seems
to work because it’s always messed up.
“You see, Dave, if she’d had a name, maybe someone
could have called to her, maybe she might
not have turned back.” I’m obsessed with this,
it’s true, but I can’t get the no-name-pillar-of-salt thing
out of my head, and this woman
who probably left with wash on the line
and goat stew simmering on the fire.
And, then there are those two daughters,
who later lay with their father, there being no
other men worth their salt in that mountain town
where they ended up. “Good thing she wasn’t around
to see that kind of sodomy,” I say. “Women
need guidance. Remember Eve?”
I tell him, “Let’s agree to disagree on this.”
He glares at me; his face turns red; pimples
stand out like, like angry mountains, I think.
“Beside, Dave, Lot lingered—he lingered,
and God took mercy on him. I want
mercy for her. And a name, Dave,
a name for God’s sake. Please call her
something besides ‘Lot’s wife’.”
Dave takes my hand, says, “Kneel with me
and let’s pray for you, my disagreeable friend,
and for all those sick people in Texas.”
Meanwhile, the computer flashes:
this program has performed an illegal operation.
“How about Loretta?” I ask, thinking of my best friend
from high school. I shuck off his hand and add,
“It’s a good name, and Mary’s been used.”
Poetry based on religious stories is fascinating to me, especially poems about Lot's wife and her role in the story that takes place in Genesis 19:1-26. Here are other poems I've posted on this theme: "Lot's Wife" by Gary J. Whitehead, "Lot's Wife" by Dana Littlepage Smith, "Wife’s Disaster Manual" by Deborah Paredez, "What Lot's Wife Would Have Said (If She Wasn't a Pillar of Salt)" by Karen Finneyfrock, "Lot's Wife" by Anna Akhmatova, and "Lot's Wife" by Kristine Batey.
The thinking/Of you where you are a blank/To be filled/In by missing. I loved you./I love you like I love/All beautiful things.
Just once I knew what life was for.
In Boston, quite suddenly, I understood;
walked there along the Charles River,
watched the lights copying themselves,
all neoned and strobe-hearted, opening
their mouths as wide as opera singers;
counted the stars, my little campaigners,
my scar daisies, and knew that I walked my love
on the night green side of it and cried
my heart to the eastbound cars and cried
my heart to the westbound cars and took
my truth across a small humped bridge
and hurried my truth, the charm of it, home
and hoarded these constants into morning
only to find them gone.
I pray to the God I remember, whom I love and fail/to love, knowing words are all I have to bind/us to each other, knowing they are passing too.
When the best of it is prized from the dung
of the Sumatran common palm civet,
sweetened like a cherry in the gut
of this little island cat, I feel better
about not drinking coffee, sipping instead sweet
tea crude as a hammer. I feel
better that I never read much
Tolstoy, stopped at the bulwark of so much
French. I should begin
a second life. I should not dream
of my macrobiotic afterlife
in which I am what I do not eat
and the animals I loved enough
to eat grass, to pretend one thing was another,
purr and sing and chirp
sweet hosannas outside my bedroom window
where sometimes we made
love but never continuances
of our selves which we'd name
Hank or Emily while saving up for Harvard.
I feel better that none of me
works well at all,
that for twenty years the fog
has never lifted
from the landscape I mean to cease defiling
someday. Thank you
cards I should have mailed
and gifts given
and favors repaid with crippling interest
I grow to love
the way I once loved
shame. What will I do with my days
now that my nights
are sublimely alone
and how will I make use of this wound
I carried like a map
so that I would never, never
And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane
how do these complex relationships all boil down in my head? just that they all take work. that they all feel like they are just about to fall apart the moment before you get them right- and that sometimes it actually might take a lifetime to get any of them right. ill go through the course of why each of these relationships struck me (not that its particularly poignant other than it feels relatable to me in a very tangible way and i may have imbibed a boat drink too many in paradise as i write this).
Heaven or bust: walking out of the movie “a place beyond the pines” last week i was trying to wrap my head or heart around the whole idea. i mean, beyond my friend producing it or the Gos’ dazzling smile and way he inhabits these trashy characters that our basically mirror images of our crummy friends from way back when that our girls all hated in such a way that our girls all love him… the father son relationship is almost mythological- just too elusive- unicorns on the range, the moment immediately following a dream where it still feels real- always more perfect or tragic on film and in books. Sons are the reason that fathers return from stormy seas to safe harbors to see them - Sons are the reasons that fathers forge ahead beyond mortgages, doubles shifts, and heartbreak because there is legacy there- a pure heart, a second chance for everyone. For sons i guess being one it is more complicated. we didn’t have the wisdom of years on our side or the battle hardened insides to withstand the momentum of the world that way our dads did. but we had spirit on our side. we had that itch of pure love inside of us. i realize it took me 30 years to realize how much i meant to my dad all along- it took me becoming a dad to get it.
the difference between disbelief and the lack of belief: on brothers.. there is so much. this has been one of the hardest relationships for me to understand in my life- it is a constantly changing lack of change. it is always at odds with itself. like maybe we knew each other best when i was gorilla pressing him above my head like the ultimate warrior and brutus the barber beefcake of the (at the time) WWF- but they were only playing, acting at what we actually were brothers, together and at odds always- as separated by time and cities, that we forge as our adopted homes, as we are by the DNA we share, fingerprints that are just off of each other….
i recently thought of brothers when i found the photograph that we made the cover of SR&R, this felt more like brothers to me than almost anything i had seen since a picture of my brother and myself, i felt almost visceral in my reaction to it. it blew my mind when the notion of a burmese kid in an AC/DC shirt smoking eclipsed the idea of the hands grazing each other in the way only brothers would. and again i thought of brothers in the wake of the boston marathon bombing. i thought of the road we share as brothers, inevitably we affect each other- in some kind of almost magnetic way- we both attract each other and repel each other… and the same can be said for every decision we make. we are inextricably linked to each other forever but not destined to guide and follow the same way fathers and sons are- but in a similar way we are interlinked and can choose to follow the other down the rabbit hole. in years maybe we will excavate and begin to understand the brothers involved in the bombing of the boston marathon. because its hard this close to the tragedy to think of it in terms beyond a couple of two bit wannabes that committed an egregious act that forever changed the lives of so many people. truly anytime i find my mind wandering and begin to wonder whether the 19 year old was just following his older brother down a twisted path, the way brothers do sometimes, my mind clashes with itself and i think of the innocence of the little boy who was just waiting for his dad at the finish line when he was so tragically killed- so where there are brothers there almost always fathers and sons…
to begin again- the phoenix that is not just flames but the rebirth as well: and to be a fan… may 22, 2004: i step into an elevator with robert smith of the cure in washington dc, i cringe, i think- i cast myself deep in doubt… as we rise 8 floors in a hotel in a diplomat strip of washington dc- i try to think of something to say- something that will blow his mind- something that will make him think differently,of how much his band and his words and he means to me. i can understand the weight of when you say “you guys are my favorite band” simply because i have uttered the same- with the same shakiness and conviction…
Fall Out Boy delivered an energetic 90-minute set in the Lifestyle Communities Pavilion last night as though there had been no hiccup in the band’s career. Seamlessly knitting past hits and new material and playing hard and fast, the group charmed a sold-out house that seemed to believe that Fall Out Boy had not been humiliated nor away.
The very real gap in its history, described in a recent interview by frontman and songwriter Pete Wentz as going from hero to zero, encompassed a flopped third release, the break-up of his band and the end of his marriage. Against expectation, not only did the band re-form after nearly four years, but it has released a hit new album. And, as Wentz further confessed, its members have grown up a bit.
That didn’t keep the four — bassist Wentz, lead singer Patrick Stump, guitarist Joe Trohman, and drummer Andy Hurley — from reveling with the kids. Half in their early-30s, half, late-20s, they egged on the interminable sing-along and drove the older songs of teen angst like, well, teens.
The best of those songs made a good case for the band’s unfair maligning during the backlash against emo, a style the group came to personify early on.
Grand Theft Autumn/Where Is Your Boy was a fine kiss-off to a lover’s former boyfriend. Fall Out Boy can do spite and revenge like few others. Hum Hallelujah was classic FOB, the kind of nostalgia a young person ponders, say, six months after a romance is over. And, though I Don’t Care had a novel, bouncy swing, it hit the mark, as well.
Plus, some of the songs from the new album fell into that pocket, even though Stump’s now more-soulful delivery shaped their melodies differently. Alone Together scored, even though its miserable sentiment was accompanied by the group’s trademark celebratory pitch. Young Volcanoes, which rocked despite employing acoustic guitars, found a sweet camaraderie, despite the singer’s age distance from the teen boys addressed.
But Fall Out Boy peppered the evening with plenty of new songs clearly created from a more-mature mindset. A couple, especially Death Valley and Where Did The Party Go, with its intoxicating dance beat and Stump’s soul vocal, were powerful enough to make a strong case for the band’s reunion.
Up next, Fall Out Boy 30-something?