Lagumbay.com Reflections on Love, Rage, and Fear

I caught a glimpse of a man behind the page
who disappeared long before I could get a clearer view,
before the lines on his face could betray his age,
before I could ask him what he knew.
I remember looking into puzzled eyes,
inquisitive and friendly eyes
that seemed more comfortable staring coldly back
at the man on the other side
instead of acknowledging the awkward moment
of catching one’s reflection in an unexpected mirror.
I must have imagined that he whispered “home”
as he faded out of view, distorted by ripples
in a puddle of words, an imaginary river of sentences,
an ocean of incoherent thoughts
momentarily smashing against the shores of reality.
I must have imagined that I whispered “home,”
referring to a distant memory, removed
from everything I understood by the wrath of some
unmerciful god who thought it best
to create me from the wreckage of catastrophe,
thought it best that I should be defined by tragedy,
forged from sorrow and from rage, created whole
but deliberately hollowed out by a solitary life,
a carving knife that sliced ink into paper –
from the whim of my creator I was made.
I must have imagined that I knew the man –
knew his name, his hopes, his fears, his flaws,
knew that sometimes he wanted to be more like myself –
uncomplicated and carefree instead of being shackled
by a society he wished he never cared for.
I must have imagined that he was no god,
instead a fragile but creative being
serving a sentence, a self-imposed exile
from a more talented, more remarkable, more dynamic world.
I must have imagined that he was no god,
instead a broken and defeated being
gazing through a piece of paper
and into my fragmented world –
a despairing man seeking an alternate illusion,
a simpler resolution to an undefined melancholy.
I caught a glimpse of a man behind the page
and for the briefest moment found my place
and with my thoughts, created his.

First was the tree from whence it was stored
to be festively decked for both studious and bored
then the garlands and tinsel from deep within storage
up through the lift which they rode with great courage.
The tree was set up and awaited decor
from the help they resorted to bribery for
who punctually came filled with laughter and cheer
save for one who hated this time of the year.
Thus they commenced in the modest endeavor
of creating the best looking Christmas Tree ever.
There were angels and stockings and balls made of glass
that unknowingly shifted the tree’s center mass.
The one with a scowl stepped forth with some beads
no doubt atoning for a year of misdeeds.
They were strung in a manner unknown to a mortal
to be the same pattern that summons a portal.
The circular table became filled with light
as the souls of the dead leapt forth and took flight.
They saw Garey and Burdick and Dorsey and Holt.
Even Company D had joined the revolt!
The man with a scowl stood there seeming undaunted
by a chorus of “I told you that this place is haunted!”
One at a time through the portal they came in –
Rubottom, Tonner, and then Little Damien.
The man with a scowl held two statues up high –
The one named Pierre just let out a sigh.
The one they called Mana started a song
while the dead and the living followed along.
They sang seasonal hymns with a secular root
with an elephant god and the goddess of fruit.
The man was unmoved, his heart made of stone –
he just shut his eyes and wished he was alone.
The tree decorators could not have been prouder
as both spirits and humans sang louder and louder.
At that moment in time there was much joy and cheer
In a world that was filled with sorrow and fear.
The man finally smiled, his first smile of the year
as he moved one bead and made them all disappear.

I am a mediocre moment — unnoticed
by a world eagerly chasing milestones and memories,
lost between the greatest and the worst,
ever-present, overlooked, uninspiring.
I am a mediocre moment — a forgotten
silent chill before rainfall,
a ray of sunlight in a cloudless sky
a subtle breeze on the third week of summer.
I am a mediocre moment — forgotten
and routine, ignored and uncherished
yet so predominantly present here and now
and I wish nothing more than to be as I am.
I am a mediocre moment.

In times like these, I think of you –
Great Chef Gaston D’Astaire
who can create food poisoning
with such elegance and flair

There’s E. coli in my spinach
and mad cow in my steak.
Avian flu — my chicken dinner
and red tide in my clam bake

Salmonella mayonnaise
served with the pork tartare.
potato salad nicely left
two days uncovered in the car.

your kitchen smells just like a dumpster
behind a chinese restaurant –
it’s easy to eat all I can
when there’s nothing I can want.

but really, you cook rather well –
in fact, that’s all you do.
If you had more than one dimension,
there’d be more poems about you.

If you could make the distinction
between food and biochemical war
Gaston, I think even you could be
the next Food Network star.

Until then, I do request,
because I think it simply rude,
that you refrain from your attempts
to serve me what you claim is food.