when I was young under the apple
trees, the very whispering of the
breezes seemed the parental (and
societal) authority: so I became
hooked on the nature of things:
when I learned the breeze and the
repression were not the same, I still
did nothing about it, because it
seemed disrespectful to me to criticize
the creators (after all, they (or
he or it) made the apple trees) so
I went right on thinking myself wrong
(in some ways I was) and the superego
right: I’ve run around supporting,
literally propping up, my victimizers,
establishing them in praise cubicles
when oopsy-daisy they were as screwed
up as I am and made a mess of creation,
namely, me: Lord, here I am old, and
my life of service has drained me,
and I have worked to earn the respect
of those I no longer respect: have mercy
on me: you cannot, I suppose, give
me another chance: right? well, I
never expected it: but I certainly
do wish I had worked through my
adolescence and kissed the past
goodbye (only to return later free
for a different worship:) I don’t
suppose you want to hear anything
more about me today: well, you know
after a hard freeze, say at the end
of November or very early December,
ephemerae and moths bound and flutter
about on a warmish day like posthumous
trash: what do these things mean,
starting so late as ghosts when the
hard water is dripping from its
prophecy of what’s to come: dust-winged
soft-flown entities, not a bee-buzz
or mosquito-whine among them, the
living dead or doomed, the mockery of
summer, of fall, already shut down,
the crickets stunned silent where
they stood like little cargoes of
recollection: I don’t suppose you
want to hear anymore about bugs:
when I was in the second grade, I
came home one day, and my mother made
me kneel before her aproned knees,
and she ran a fine-tooth comb thru
my hair, and the plump little head
lice dribbled out onto the white
apron: I was looking right at them:
their fine legs wiggled their
relocation about: my itchy scalp
felt so good: my mother scraped away
for days to get the nits: we were
clean people: I caught them boogers
from somebody, but I never did get
the itch, even though a few poor
people came in smelling awful (to
school, I mean) because their parent
had greased them for the itch: one
time a student told the teacher her
mother said “she warn’t greasing
fer the itch till adder Christmas”:
it smelt so, I mean: better to scratch
than stink for the holidays, is my
opinion, too: I had a clean pair
of overalls every Monday morning:
that’s the way it went