Wednesday, May 15, 2019

battle hymn 2019

battle hymn 2019
Wednesday, May 15, 2019
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Woman Looking at Sunset

girls bring your daughters
round up your mothers
we have work to do
sweet home alabama,
where they rob you of your womb,
we’re crossing into you
from the Mississippi river
where my double-tongued cuz
plays the pipe for a cottonmouth crowd
wide-open white venom tongue singing
“God how da ya like us now?
Never been a man finer than our gov.
like our father who art in heaven,
willing to sacrifice his son.”


girls remember their names:
del, jabo, arthur, greg,
tiny men who eat from their mother’s cancer.
tighten a monkey claw around their hours
vote them out, vote us in.

girls grab your bags
they’re shooting witches at the fair
they’re drowning angels in the alley
they’re digging ditches for spinsters,
hipsters, and pantsuit well-wishers,
they’re parading in Union Squire
selling choir girl souvenirs
as the devil stands nearby,
reciting scripture.

girls get your rifles
bring your bulletproof bibles
no, I’m not advocating violence –
but Pulaski is a 3-hour drive
and if the stone men stop us
we gotta be ready for a fight

girls find your tribe
join your tribes
get your troops on the ground
find sunny in ohio
banging on the pulpit
“Black women can’t die fast enough!
They can’t die enough
They can’t die enough.
They can’t die fast enough for them.”
God save us from godly men.

we got Georgia on our minds and in our vagines—
be not proud, you malignant tumor.
sherman torched your dark heart
and left you for dead two centuries past,
but you never honored his wishes.
so typical, what a man starts,
a woman has to finish.

girls hitch your wagons
we’re taking the scenic route out
down through the Ocmulgee Mounds
when the dirt protrudes from the earth
like a woman’s desire –
our daughters half-asleep in the passenger seat
but lord, they’re listening
Sweet mercy is nobility’s true badge
but our girls, they prefer bone and wire
gems and gold are better used on blades
and revenge is best served with fire.

EP 5-15-19
Tuesday, April 23, 2019

The Big Blind Is All There Is

The Big Blind Is All There Is
Tuesday, April 23, 2019
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 Image result for sri lanka

shantha missed earth day this year,
buried with her daughter under four feet of rubble.
she taught Westerners how to tame
the flames of curry with a side of mild rice
—until the windows shattered,
until the lobby exploded,
until their tongues were slathered with ashes
and only death could cleanse their palates.


The men brought cameras.
The reporter dusted her nose with powder.
“Here we go again, in the fourth (fifth?) hate (no, don’t say that!)
-TERRORIST attack this year.”

Let the finger pointing begin.
Who is responsible?
God, Thowheeth Jama’ath, Trump, in that order.
Throw in Al Quaida for good measure.
Also, the Sri Lankan government.
“They were warned!” cries the New York Times.
“They should have known better.”

Meanwhile the prayer warriors pause from drowning eggs in pastel colors
and gather en masse at their keyboard altars.
Pray for Sri Lanka, pray for New Zealand.
(Prayer does nothing, atheists hiss.
And the pagans are pissed.
“Funny how jesus had his coming-out-of-retirement
party on our special day…”)

Funny how such a beautiful time of year is capable of such ugly things.
Funny how Man makes it that way.

Meanwhile in Negombo they’re still recovering bodies.
234, 241, 250…

Meanwhile over the Lakshadweep Sea off exit 23,
smoke creeps through the loblolly pines and
a man sings beside the charred walls of St. Mary’s,
“Deep river, my home is over Jordan,
Deep river, I want to cross over into campground…”

Meanwhile on Cameron Road the ghost of Guru Angad serves a plate
of gulab jubun to my son, and Sikh men wrap his head
in holy threads, saying “turbans are an expression of love.”

Outside my blond child runs wild in fields of burgundy winecups and pink primroses,
his turban unwinding in the wind, the sky above split between sleep and fire.
meanwhile over on a park bench Madre Tierre sits, playing Texas Holdem with a polar bear.
“The big blind is all there is,” she winks.
She doesn’t give a damn about her birthday.
“I got 10 billion species of plants and animals
waiting for Man to get his sh*t together.”
She leans in. The polar bear grins.
“Listen: your dead don’t want resurrection,
and your gods grow weary of you.
you can split your differences down the middle  and call it ‘faith'
but only love can cleanse your palates from hate.”

Erin Passons
April 22, 2019
Monday, March 11, 2019

the best man

the best man
Monday, March 11, 2019
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republicans don’t want you, lewis.
when’s the last time you voted anyway?
you’ve been 21 since you were 18.
brian says you’re not human.
he has stories.
we all do.

last year a bomb blew up in your neighborhood.
your neighbors called, you were babysitting a dog.
you had no clue a kid would never walk again,
or walk with nails in his shins or walk with singed flesh.
austin was on lockdown, we were worried there was a war ahead.
but you stayed tucked away in your waterbed
singing hail marys to Live Oak cans and texting your friends,
“where’s the party at?”

the party shrinks every year.
I peaced out a long time ago, another casualty of monogamy,
one of many. you should be used to it.
how many times have you played the best man to a rat abandoning ship?
how many fly miles have you racked up travelling cross-country to serve last rites
to a lad about to be had by the cringing ring of a wedding bell?

I remember the Park City wedding,
when you found the groom pacing the church basement
on the morning the service was scheduled to commence,
cummerbund undone and fear-faced with a case of severe premarital jitters.
you said, “let’s think about this before you make any rash decisions”
and spent hours talking him off the ledge.
the ceremony carried on as planned.
it’s one of your proudest moments.
doesn’t matter they divorced a year later.
you were there to save the wedding; to hell with the marriage.

hollee says it makes sense, what you did,
“of course, lewis wanted the wedding to go on,
he was probably appalled at the thought of all
that alcohol being wasted.”

but, see, I think of you differently.
cause I still remember those summer nights post-divorce
hanging out at Fado’s by your invitation—you, me, Hollee,
the rest of your congregation, laughing and draining glasses
of lager and bumming cigarettes off strangers.
I remember it all
— the patio and the thick, soupy air and the stench
of parched plants panhandling to an impassive, swollen
moon—like an old man crooning to the illusion of water.
it was a beautiful slaughter, all those sweaty bodies squashed in,
dancing rhythmless to a U2 cover band, fist-pumping silhouettes
on shamrocks and stiletto heels getting killed by the sticky spilt beer of an after party.
you flicked ashes off my dress and asked me to dance.
I laughed and swatted at your hand.
“come on, erin, even liberals gotta have fun” you sung
whenever I got homesick for my kids.

back then, I would have traded the fun
to be in love again, or be in love with the life I’m in –
but I was wrong, and I want you to know how sorry I am,
and how very thankful.

hollee told me a story about you the other day.
(republicans don’t want her either, by the way)
she said the night Fado’s closed for good,
you took Justin’s plaque from its place above the bar stool—his bar stool,
the one he sat in for years,
sharing drink specials with you,
hitting on girls with you, trading barbs with you,
always the faithful companion
until ALS stole his laugh and closed his bar tab forever.
after his funeral you nailed the memorial plaque above his stool
“THIS IS WHERE JUSTIN SAT”
but Fado’s was closing,
and you weren’t about to let your friend’s memory go down
with the sinking ship. you took the plaque and carried him back
to a time when he could walk again—
and I sorta, kinda love you for this.

republicans can’t have you, lewis.
barbarella isn’t the beast you think.
we’ll talk about politics again when it's safe.
or we won't talk about politics at all.
besides, brian says you’re not human.
he has stories.
we all do
and we love you for them.
Thursday, March 7, 2019

luke perry

luke perry
Thursday, March 7, 2019
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Image result for luke perry 90210

when I was eleven I hammered Luke Perry to my wall
 and drew his name with hearts on my social studies textbook.
I shared a bus with boys who shot spitballs in my hair
and asked, “Why are you so pale?” as if I had an answer.
I watched the pretty girls take quizzes in Seventeen magazine
to find out if they were a Brenda or a Kelly.
I never took the quiz because I already knew I was an Andrea,
a friendless wallflower who kept her light dim
so other girls could shine brighter.

when I was twelve I replaced Luke Perry with a Young Guns poster.
the following July I woke up in bloody sheets and
Emilio Estevez pointing a gun at my kitten.
I rode the bus with boys who yanked at my hair
and said, “you would be pretty if you weren’t so pale”
(as if I had a choice in the matter).
I watched other girls closely and wondered which ones had also woken up
to the sight of blood and the shock of a new beginning.

When I was fourteen I replaced the Young Guns
with a poster of elephants.
I scrawled “Save the Rainforest” in my English notebook and
shared a bus with boys who said I was weird.
when I asked why, they said “you just are.”
I met girls who said “that’s ok, we’re weird too”
And we went about saving the planet together.

When I was seventeen I replaced the elephants with Eddie Vedder.
I wrote Nirvana lyrics in my journal
and burned incense in my room
to disguise the smell of cigarettes.
I shared a bus with a boy who shot himself
while his parents were at Easter service.
It rained at his funeral, and my friends and I began to dance,
because we were too healthy and young
to already know death,
and maybe the world would seem less dark
if we shined all our lights together.

when I was forty I read that Luke Perry was dead
and for hours I felt nothing.
Then I remembered being eleven and
defacing the map of the world with the name
of a star I had never met,
and how less rocky the landscape of adolescence had felt
with his star beside my bed,
watching over,
one light whispering to another,
“shine on.”
Saturday, March 2, 2019

Fear of Flying

Fear of Flying
Saturday, March 2, 2019
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I have a confession: I hate flying.

This hasn’t always been the case. I used to love to fly. I flew alone for the first time when I was seventeen, on my way to study abroad in Australia. I’ll never forget the moment Sydney came into view—after eighteen hours of lonely darkness, a shape-shifting landscape with a million moving dots of light appearing through the clouds—and how mesmerized I was, how unwilling I was to look away. I decided right then and there, flying was exciting. It was freedom. Life viewed from a distance. Large chunks of earth squeezed through a tiny slice of window.

Then, 9-11 happened. Now, I hate flying more than anything. I guess many Americans feel this way. I wouldn’t know.

“Why wouldn’t you know?” Merc once asked me. “You don’t talk about it with other Americans?”

“We don’t really talk about it with each other,” I corrected her. Because we don’t, do we? Not as much as we should—or perhaps, not as much as we need to, and certainly never at airports, where the horror began.

But it’s always with us, isn’t it? The weight of it. Sliding into the bar stool beside us or standing behind us in the restroom line; matching our brisk pace on moving walkways to our next connection or slipping between the glass and the frame of movie posters depicting grinning celebrities with unnaturally white teeth.

Escape for a while, the movie star suggests.

There is no escape, argues the space in between.

For whatever reason, the jumpers weigh on my mind more than the other lives taken that day. Some nights in months not even close to September, I stay suspended between awake and asleep and envision men and women falling from towers one-hundred-and-ten floors tall, and think, my god what a horrific dilemma, death by earth or fire or smoke, and how awful, how terrifying, the choice they had to make. It’s a thought I can never unthink; a sight I can never unsee.

And isn’t it cruel the way time strips us of the best moments of being alive—our children’s milestones, our personal achievements, a stranger’s random act of kindness—but leaves forever ingrained in our brains the dark and the deranged, like that of two towers on a clear summer day, eclipsed by the shadow of an oncoming plane?

Every anniversary, we are asked never to forget, and every anniversary I think, as if that were possible.

My kids weren’t alive in 2001. My daughter was born in 2004; my son in 2006. They didn’t know me before 9-11, and therefore, from their perspective, mommy has always been a chickenshit when it came to flying. “Who is going to hold mommy’s hand when the plane takes off?” they ask each other. My son usually does the honors—my 12-year-old, who’s often apathetic behavior has led me to google “signs your child is a psychopath” more than once. But when we’re flying, this stoic child with the compassion of a boll weevil sits beside me, holds my hand, watches me with eyes the same blue as mine and whispers, “It’s okay, Mom, I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” repeatedly until the plane reaches its cruising altitude.

I think 9-11 is the reason why we Americans (who, as a whole—let’s be honest—have never been known for our tolerance) put up with so much crap from airport security. Can you imagine having the security protocol that we have today without a historic, tragic event having triggered it? I can’t. The outrage would be palpable. We’d have protests in the street. Hell, I can pick members from my family tree who would be added to the No Fly List straight off the bat. “No way in Sam Hill am I taking off my snake skin boots! Y’all are just gonna have to frisk me!” “Honey, I forked out twelve bucks at the CVS for this L’Oreal face cream. I’ll throw you away before I throw it away.” “God damnit, this is America. Our founding fathers did not write the Bill of Rights just so some pissant like yourself can keep me from bringing a full-size bottle of Jack Daniels on the plane.” (My family is from the South, in case you can’t tell.)

I just wish the regulations were enforced in a less adversarial way; that TSA agents didn’t make us feel like we were hardened criminals getting processed to serve a life term at the local penitentiary, instead of on our way to Las Vegas to gamble away all our savings or traveling to Boston to sleep through our kid’s college graduation. I mean, is a TSA agent’s rigidity really necessary? Are they told to be that way? Is antisocial personality disorder a requirement for the job, or has the stress of working long hours with bad pay and dealing with complaining travelers every day turned them into the sour-faced enforcers of arbitrary TSA regulations that we’ve all come to know and love today?

Probably the latter, I guess. It must be a demanding life, getting paid twelve bucks an hour to ensure our flights are safe from the hazards of homemade bombs and a regular-sized shampoo bottles. They probably have to enjoy the perks where they can find them, which is why I wonder if their stringent adherence to TSA policy is less about safety and more about getting a kick out of ordering humans to perform the most humiliating tasks in front of other humans. It must be a power trip, having the authority to ask us to remove half their garments and walk barefoot on a dirty floor through a box that scans our gross insides. (And is there any place sadder than the benches placed directly outside security? It looks like the post-surgical wing of an illegal organ operation—all those travelers scrambling to redress, fumbling with the clasps of watches, hunched over retying shoes or stretching out their arms to re-add their sweaters and coats and thread their bags back onto their shoulders—all of that picking and prodding of their self, and now they’re expected to walk away and reemerge back into their day pretending everything is fine, as if their life’s most intimate contents hadn’t just been rifled through and examined by group of sourpuss strangers.)

Security checkpoints would be simpler if all airports had the same standards, but alas, it’s different everywhere you go. This leads to an excess of confusion for travelers, as well insurmountable frustration for TSA agents, I imagine. “Sir, I said, put your carry-ons in the tray.” “Ma’am, read the sign. Carry-ons go directly on the conveyor belt.” “Carry-ons go in the tray with your keys. Shoes go in the tray with your belts and coat.” “Put your phone and keys in your coat and put your coat in the tray with your spare change.” “Put your coats and shoes in separate trays, then hand your spare change to Floyd. Say hi, Floyd.” “Listen up, people! Walk through the X-ray machine with your hands down!” “Walk through with your hands at your side.” “Walk through with your right hand in, then put your right hand out, then do the hokey pokey and turn yourself around.”

Some airports, like JFK, want you to take it all off. Your shoes, your belt, the whole shebang. “Sir, is that an artificial heart? Please put it on the conveyor belt.” Whereas other places (I won’t say where) are more relaxed about TSA policy, or perhaps, have a looser interpretation. “Leave your phones in your bag, unless they are expensive and uninsured.” “If you’re wearing heels or Cole Haan moccasins, please take them off.” “You can leave your laptops in your bags unless you are using Windows Vista.” “Those traveling to Omaha, Nebraska, please bypass security and get professional help immediately.” “Sir, your AK-47 must go in your carry-on, otherwise you can’t take it on the plane.”

More disconcerting than strict airport security is, of course, the fear that airport security wasn’t strict enough. Any time I fly, I play a game called, “Who could be a terrorist?” And because I pride myself on being a good Democrat, I try to assert my unsubstantiated paranoia evenly among my fellow passengers. The Melissa McCarthy-lookalike in the cat sweater was just as likely to be carrying an exploding device as, say, the almond-skinned guy in a business suit. Was the zoned-out college kid in the Weezer shirt looking too zoned-out, perhaps? As if he was acting? Maybe the kid with the finger up his nose was digging for something more insidious than boogers. Then, there’s always the chance that the plane won’t be hijacked, but simply crash due to good ole mechanical failure. Sure, statically we’re more likely to die in a car accident (According to the National Safety Council, Americans had a 1 in 114 chance of dying in a car crash, whereas they had a 1 in 9,821 chance of dying midair—and that includes not only planes, but hot air balloons, sky diving, bungee jumping, zeppelins, and space shuttles). But those statistics don’t really calm me much. It’s not death I’m worried about (I’m a realist, I am quite aware that I’ll have to buy the farm sooner or later); it’s how I die that terrifies the piss out of me. And dying in a car crash sounds more pleasant then plummeting 1000 feet in the air and crashing into the Atlantic Ocean, only to die on impact, or drown, or be devoured by a shark, or spend years on a remote island growing a beard and talking to a volleyball.
Wednesday, February 20, 2019

Pieces of Dresden

Pieces of Dresden
Wednesday, February 20, 2019
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"Let’s go on a day trip tomorrow,” I suggest.

“Where were you thinking?” Doug asks.

“Dresden,” I reply.

“Dresden?” Doug furrows his brows. “Didn’t it get bombed to hell and back?”

“Yes, but they rebuilt everything. It looks exactly how it did before the war.”

“Really? How?”

I shrug. “They’re Germans.”

#

The next morning, Doug and I wake up early and board a train to Dresden. It’s Sunday and it’s Germany, which means the usual shops are closed, but when we walk into the Altmarkt square through the Erzgebirge Christmas pyramid, we find the Striezelmarkt awake and lively.

The Striezelmarkt was first documented back in 1434, making it one of Germany’s oldest Christmas markets.

Almost as old as the market is the bread sold here—Stollen, a dense fruitcake-type bread coated with a light dusting of powdered sugar.

Here’s a nerdy culinary fact for you: before Stollen became available in the 15th century, bakers were only allowed to use oil (not butter) during the Advent season, which was a time when all good Catholics were expected to fast. This did not sit well with a certain Saxon prince whose name I can’t remember, so let’s call him Ed. Ed wrote to the Pope in Rome and begged him to allow butter during the holiday season. Because Ed couldn’t come right out and tell the Pope that bread baked without butter tasted like bird droppings, he had to argue his case with more palatable bullet points: oil was expensive, hard to come by, and had to be made from turnips (apparently no one liked turnips back then, either). Ed’s request was rejected five times before the Pope finally caved—but only partially. The verdict: only Ed and his noble family could use butter for bread. No one else. Let the peasants eat turnip bread, in other words. Thus, Stollen was born, and although it’s not the Stollen we know today (which is probably a good thing, despite the questionable decision to add raisins to the recipe somewhere along the way), it has, nevertheless, endured throughout the centuries. Stollen is so popular, in fact, that Dresden holds a Stollenfest every year, right before Christmas. The ceremony includes bringing the Stollen via carriage to the Striezelmarkt, where it is then cut into serviceable pieces by the Great Holy Stollen Knife of Dresden (or something to that effect).

The first thing I do at Striezelmarkt is find a booth selling Stollen and hand over my Euros to the disinterested girl manning the booth. The bread is heavy, thick, and wrapped in plastic sealed with a sticker picturing the city’s favorite king, Augustus II the Strong (the “Strong” moniker deriving from the king’s favorite pastime of breaking horseshoes with his bare hands—the eighteenth century’s version of crushing beer cans, I guess).

Bread in tow, Doug and I walk around the Striezelmarkt booths and peruse their other offerings—wood ornaments, candle pyramids, nutcrackers, mulled wine, and Pflaumentoffel, which are miniature men made out of prunes. The prune men are supposed to be chimney sweeps, but they look more like satanic clowns dressed in Goodyear tires. No thanks. Still, satanic prune clowns aside, it is a relief to be back at a German Christmas market with its handmade products and authentic cuisine. It has none of the phony baloney stuff like in Prague. It’s a night and day difference.

It’s more kid-friendly, too. At the center of the market is an area devoted entirely for children, with a puppet theater, a merry-go-round, a children’s railway, a prune chimney sweep’s cottage for arts and crafts, and a bakery for kneading dough. For the second time on our trip, I begin to wish my kids were here. Something tickles at my heart when I picture Kaya on the train, his blond head bobbing up and down as he waves with a mittened hand, or London in the cottage, piecing together scraps of construction paper to make an ornament.

Then, I remember that my kids aren’t really kids anymore, and would probably spend their time here doing what they did everywhere else—that is, looking at their phones and complaining about being hungry.

There is also the very real probability that my children would die of hypothermia before we ever made it to Striezelmarkt, because neither one of them, to the best of my knowledge, have ever voluntarily worn coats. It is an ongoing battle—albeit, not one that I fight often (we live in Texas, after all)—but one fought often enough to incite rage when I think about it.

For example, it could be thirty degrees and London will walk out of the house wearing Birkenstocks and booty shorts.

“London, wear pants.”

“It’s not cold!” she’ll argue through chattering teeth.

“Put your boots on!”

“I’m fine!” she’ll insist as her toes turn blue and fall off.

“Now!”

London will let out a big huff, walk back inside, and slam the door with the kind of exaggerated indignation that can only be yielded by perpetually menstruating teenage girls.

But at least London makes an attempt to leave the house. If you can get my son moving without repeatedly threatening his life or his access to WiFi, you’re a better parent than I.

“Kaya, put your shoes on, we’re about to go.”

“Okay,” he says, not moving.

Two minutes later. “Kaya, we’re leaving. Put your shoes on.”

“Okay.” (stays still as a rock)

Minutes later. “Kaya, now!”

He looks up. “What?”

“We’re leaving!”

“We are?” He looks confused, as if I had told him that a Russian SS-20 missile was being launched from his bedroom.

“Yes. Put your shoes on!” I insist.

“Oh. Okay.”

The struggle is real.

I remember all of this, and suddenly I am okay to be here without my children.
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