Catullus 58 -- About A Mutual Friend

Caelus, our Lesbia,

Lesbia --  you know :

The Lesbia Catullus loved, 

More than everything he owns,

Even more than himself,

He loved her, her alone.

Right now on some

crossroad or corner,

goes down

on the generous,

venerous young men

of Rome.

          Carmen LVIII

Caeli, Lesbia nostra, Lesbia illa,

illa Lesbia, quam Catullus unam

plus quam se atque suos amavit omnes,

nunc in quadriviis et angiportis

glubit magnanimi Remi nepotes.

Golgotha

When he was born
my blood flowed over straw
And when he died
his blood dripped down like rain.

My firstborn.
I'm Egyptian now.
I prayed to Isis
at his feet.
He screamed.

Mary In Egypt

Our best times were in Egypt, when we fled.

I spoke a foreign tongue, and , yes, I prayed

to Isis, screaming till my insides bled.

then sat outside in heat and blowing sand

and watched my baby, mindless as he played,

the goddess his protector in this land.

And when I healed, the old man finally turned

and touched me, and beneath her moon we made

our second baby. Oh, I thought we could

stay there forever. I was still a child.

*

One day he came to me. He shambled, old,

into the kitchen where I kneaded bread

to make my family's dinner. When he said

It's safe, we can go home, that's when I died.

The baby in my womb still drank my blood.

The old man smiled. He always was so kind,

his touch at night more gentle than a bird.

I tried to tell him, but my tongue was wood

and Isis did not answer when I called.

The fatherless one, though, he rose and stood

alone amid his toys as if those words

had killed him too. How could he understand

what angels' whispering voices in my head

had always told me : he was not my child.

We had not run from Herod but from G-d.

My Father

Who finally walking

down a  checkered linoleum

corridor long, bright-lit,

in a nursing home just

after breakfast

sat heavy in his chair and quiet

breathing empty no one hating
whom the nurses knew

to call mister

and ask permission

before touching his things.

The Ballad of Vlad

The Ballad of Vlad

Vlad,Vlad, he’s a very bad lad.
He wants what old Joe Stalin had
From Berlin out to Volgograd
An Empire like his dear old Dad
Grew up in back when Petrograd
Still went by the name of Stalingrad.
So, after the last Olympiad
He looked around and he got sad.
Ukraine was turning west, egad!
The Fleet was in danger. Vlad got mad.

In 1954, Ukraine
Got Crimea once again
Given away by that old pain,
Nikita Kruschev. Quite insane,
If you ask Vlad. He will explain
That what you have conquered should remain
Forevermore in your domain.
It went against his very grain
To watch Ukraine go down the drain.
The West would understand. It’s plain
As rain. He would invade Ukraine!

So he told his army, “Boys, I’ll see ya’
In two days time inside Crimea.
It won’t take long. It will just be a
Cakewalk. Crimea will be free. A
Couple days. No more, you’ll see. The
West will just have diarrhea.”
A couple days went by and he a-
-ttacked. And all the world could see a
Russian Premier such as he a-
-ssumed himself always to be: a
Star of a Tsar atop Crimea.

A day after Crimea fell,
The market tanked. The ruble, well,
Less said the better. Truth to tell,
Vlad’s whole economy went to hell.
And Europe, where he liked to sell
His oil and gaz au naturel
Decided that they could dispel
Vlad’s dreams of conquest and compel
Him back to Moscow, quick as hell
By pressure economical.

And so they told the Russian Bear
Hey, Vlad, bad lad, get out of there.
We don’t want your army where
It shouldn’t be. How could you dare
To gobble up more than your share
Of Europe. Sure, it isn’t fair
To circumscribe the countries where
The Russian bear may have his lair.
But, Vladimir. You’re not the heir
Of Papa Joe (who had more hair).
You’d best beware! Don’t linger there.

Now comes the question, will he do it
Or will he tell the West to screw it
And turn Crimea into suet?
It isn’t easy to intuit
His thoughts, his fears, his point of view. It
May be that he’ll come to rue it
If he persists. Perhaps he blew it.
He clearly doesn’t think that’s true. It
Seems that there there’s just one thing to it:
Vlad’s a mad cad, we always knew it.

And pretty soon we all will see
If Vlad will have his victory
Or if it is, as it may be
That, through his rude proclivity
To stretch the Empire, sea to sea
(Atlantic and Pacifically)
And from Ukraine, specifically
To gain again what used to be
The Motherland’s own property,
He’s started accidentally
What then would be his legacy,
The final conflict: World War III.

Too bad Vlad had the rad idea
To fuck us with a ruckus old Crimea.

A Doggerel on the State of my Body

My knees are arthritic
My eyes barely work
I'm near paralytic
And God is a joke.

After

We waited ten years. I wish that I could say

the slaughter at the ending was more sweet

for all that time. It wasn't. Oh it may

have been ambrosial for the kings, but for the

others, the low ones, born to feed the gods

in battle, strong backed men who manned

the oars of the black ships, whom war's bleak odds

disfavored and who die alone, unmourned,

there was just the bitter taste of blood

the wild keening song of slashing blades.

Know this: for one long moment it was good

to stride wide streets triumphant and to flay

our enemies until they were just meat

carved for the hungry gods, who swallow lives

like water on some distant mountain peak

where vultures perch and raptors swoop and dive.

And when our enemies were all dead, I joined

the riot, took a woman by the hair.

She cried and fought and writhed against my groin.

I had her in the darkness and the fire.

And that, friends, was my war. I died that night

although I lived to row my way back home.

I still think of her eyes, the searing fright

that pierced me as I lay upon her bones.

When I was done, her blood poured out like wine.

I watched the living light flow from her eyes.

I dream her now, a ghost built of my sin.

She lives. At night, my sleep burns with her cries.

Ten years we waited; one night we made death

that rots my  insides still. I hate this earth.  

Daedalus To His Son

This is the song that we were born to sing:

As we grow old, we lose our precious wings.

*

The birds of heaven, boy, aren’t what they seem:

We’re tethered to the earth – we think; they dream

*

This ground, my child, was fashioned out of stone

While men, like birds, are made of  fragile bone.

*

Maybe at night, young men dream of flying.

I can’t remember: my dreams are of dying.

*

Live while you can; it isn’t meant to last.

Get in the car; I’ll teach you to drive fast.

A Doggerel On The Republican Party

We’ll lie, we’ll cheat, we’ll rob you blind

But if we say we love Jesus then you won’t mind.

Catullus 85; Lesbia: A Lament

I hate I love:

      Why should I,

you might ask.

    I don’t know.

Still I feel

     myself doing it

and am crucified

Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris.
nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.