Imagine a partially deaf
93 year old
Who watches CNN
Obsessively

Imagine her first language
Was not a language at all
But a mix of dialects
Her mother’s
Cajun French
And her father’s
New Orleans French

Imagine she often
Gives Mrs. Malaprop
A run for her money
Or her Monet, perhaps
Or her honey
Depending on the background noise

(When she drove, she sped up by pressing
On the exhilarator
When she does dishes, she washes them
In the zinc
When she writes an email she uses
Google air mail)

Imagine, in short, my mother

See her charge
(As much as a slow, bent old woman can charge
And that, it turns out, is quite a lot)
Into the kitchen as I wash dishes
(At the zinc, of course)
Charge up behind me and demand
“What is an oliguard?”

Hear me, retired professor,
Too much in love with knowledge
Talking at her about oligarchy
About oligarchs and fashionable words
About formal and common usage

Imagine her interrupting (finally)

Imagine her
Old and bemused, sometimes confused
But still able
In her way to crack
That whip smart

Imagine her saying
“So an oliguard is a very wealthy person
Who uses his wealth to guard
Politicians who guard his money.”

Imagine now
Forevermore
Oliguards

Call
Dare her
To talk and begin to try to wipe away those misunderstandings
Like scum on the shower wall when you forget
That washing yourself is not enough, you have to clean the shower too
Or like essays unedited
That almost reveal some new truth or old truth newly conceived
But instead confuse you and leave you angry and restless

Call
Dare her
To listen and begin to try to laugh again together
The laughter like money hoarded just for you two
Stolen coins, slick with their owners’ unshed tears
Or like sneaky playground bullies
Who hurt so quietly that you seem mean to protest

Call
Dare her
To put on an asbestos suit and step with you
Into the lava pit and then take off a glove
Maybe, or lift a face mask
Anything to feel a little again even if it burns
To feel something like the same again
Even if only there in the
Caldera

The first rule of Facebook discourse
Must be simply this:
Ignore Grice’s maxims of coherent discourse
No, not ignore: reject, subvert, invert

As to quantity, more is always better
Especially if you are giving advice
Which is what Facebook was created for
Right?
To prove that you know, know more, know better
Whether it is about pealing an onion or electing a politician

As to quality, write quickly, write carelessly
The quality will be proven by your unedited intensity
And do not slow the discourse down with weighty evidence
Evidence? We don’t need no evidence
Evidence is not a badge of authority but a red cape to the bull of skepticism

As to relation, write without regard to person or subject
The less you know the person, the more scathing your comment
Compassion is best reserved for church
Cruelty need not be a concern here: “Sticks and stones…” etc.
The less you know the topic, the more certain your judgment
Relevance is a classical concept in a postmodern world
Swim fearlessly through the murky waters of irrelevance

As to manner, Facebook is not a well-mannered society
Or a well-tempered conversation
Length trumps clarity; quickness trumps orderliness
Your first ambiguous half thoughts trump exactness
Your obscure sources trump common knowledge

So remember, please, when writing for Facebook
(Especially when commenting on someone else’s post):
Write more
Write quickly
Write carelessly
Eschew evidence
Eschew compassion
Eschew relevance
And, above all,
Forget your manners

What if under the rock-strewn caldera
The lava still burns, filling a medievalist’s hell
What if under the snow-capped crest
The lava still flames, ready for a witch’s cauldron
What if under the time-leveled slope
The lava still runs, purpose to an alchemist’s dream
What if under the new-sprung green
The lava still chokes, hammer to a blacksmith’s anvil
What if under the peace that passes understanding
The lava still smothers, doubt to a believer’s faith

Version 1

Even the twilight remnant of my youth has faded into old age
Yet still this night has a full moon’s light of shiny new lust
That fountain of youth that sprays up lightly from my husband
Into my dark passage
Night, usually night, brings creaking, bump and grinding, laughing
Love making
Night, usually night, brings whispering, stroking, pressing, resting
Love stretching
Night, usually night, brings touching, turning, snoring, sleeping
Love trusting
Then day comes
And we are old again
(Yet still, even in the old sun’s unkind light,
Giggling, touching, dancing, preening, silly
With new love)

Version 2

Even the twilight remnant of our youth has faded
Yet still
In the young moon’s flattering light, shiny new lust
That fountain of youth that sprays up lightly from my husband
Into my dark passage
Night, usually night, brings creaking, bump and grinding, laughing
Night, usually night, brings whispering, stroking, pressing, resting
Night, usually night, brings touching, turning, snoring, sleeping
Then day comes

And we are old again
Yet still,
In the old sun’s unkind light, shiny new love
That fountain of youth that sprays up lightly from my heart
Into my husband’s dark hollow
Day, usually day, brings giggling, touching, talking, preening
Day, usually day, brings working, lazing, coming, going
Day, usually day, brings smiling, knowing, speaking, feeling
New love

I cannot remember how to think without words
The family mythology is that one evening
Before I was 4 years old
My dad noticed that I could read the newspaper.
I do not remember how to be without words
I live inside words
And yet
In the spaces between words
The spaces that I try to fill with
Unspoken but not unthought words
In those spaces
Lives the feel of Woody’s beard
The shape of Andi’s womb
The drag of my mother’s cane
The smell of farting dog
The heaviness of wet laundry
All the life I love
But I do not know how to live there.

I guess I wrote two poems today, same theme. I just found this, that I scribbled on a scrap of paper while sitting next to my mother, waiting in the pew for Mass to start:

For love He went
Where angels fear to tread
Invading that dark realm
Finding him first
That other one
Who died on a tree
When love died
Scattering hope
Like silver coins
Descending into hell
Where there is no love
Until Love descending
Found him and captured him
Again
Before the uprising

Love comes and goes
Lives and dies
Is born again
Do we call that
Faith
Or baptism
Or resurrection
Love dies again and again
And is born again
Until it isn’t
Do we call ourselves
Believers
Or lovers
Or fools

I think of him
Dying on a tree
The fool
Who hoped too much
Who loved too little
He said
You kissed my dreams
But you betrayed them
So I kissed you
And betrayed you
When my love died
And then I found a tree
And hanged myself

But the other fool
After dying on a tree
The fool
Who hoped enough
Who loved enough
Found him
And said
I came for you
I came for love
Come now
With me
Where there is no faith
Because all is seen
Where there is no hope
Because all is real
But love, oh love
Shining, holding, staying
Love
Is there
Rising forever
With Me