in light of my thirsty, sunless cacti

I have failed my cacti. Several weeks ago I brought them in out of the cold. A week too late. Since then I have watched them become gaunt and emaciated. Have winced as Scooter (the short one) lost his happy plumpness, looking squished. Have frowned as Pickles (the tall one), once straight and proud, listed then bowed beneath its own weight. Have grimaced as Beans (the most ferociously prickly one) bruised like wilted lettuce on a Wendy's burger.


Attempts at revival have been made; but I fear the end is near. Am I ashamed? A bit, yes. Any regrets? Of course.

Speaking of: I call shenanigans on those who swear to have none. If truly one has no regrets then s/he just wasn’t trying hard enough, I think. S/he took no real risks. S/he has yet to live. As near as I can figure, I would say that my life is seventy-five-percent regrettable. Of the remainder, I am cautiously proud; cautious because pride comes before regret; so I hush my rare successes and teach them to be gracious--knowing how quickly they can be wrenched from my grip. On the remainder, I am sufficiently nourished; who needs the worry of perfection when hard-fought, dearly-bought sustenance is enough?; so I feed my rare successes in nibbles--knowing how thunderously gluttonous ones fall.

A life without regret? Perhaps. I'm not saying it's impossible. Maybe I'm saying a life without regret is itself regrettable. (Don't stop to do the math, come back to it.) We hear it asked: If you could go back in time, what, if anything, would you change? What would you do differently? And we hear it answered so often: Nothing. I'd do it all again, just the same. No regrets. But really? Perhaps. I suppose it's conceivable. But most likely, I think we answer that way for shame of the truth. We are conditioned to be ashamed of shame, to be embarrassed by failure. We fall on our swords rather than face our compatriots with egg on our faces.

In light of my thirsty, sunless cacti . . . If nothing else, I tried. In light of that . . . If I have failed at every turn, I have learned during the next straightaway. If I have failed to learn, I will, without fail, as often I have, come to regret it.

freshly minted

This is brand new. Just wrote it and thought I'd share it--still slimy with natal ooze. Gross, right? I guess that's the experiment here. Post first, edit later. Or not. I'm lazy. Unfortunately, my talent is sporadic. Comes, at best, in twos, like unclean beasts to Noah. Which brings up a question: why re-populate the earth with uncleanliness. By inverse adage, wouldn't that be ungodliness. My thoughts, I suppose, could not be farther from God's thoughts. Or should I say further? Ha! A grammarian's theology!

But I digress. Natal ooze. Here you go.

Coinage

A penny as old as I am:

As valuable as me.

We’re worth our weight

In free.

I plucked the penny from a crack

And chipped a fingernail.

Dead flesh and coin

For sale.

Copper and water—most of us,

Respectively. We flip

Senseless through air

And slip

Off the palms of distracted gods.

A penny from seventy-five:

As magical as me.

A melded two

Are we.

I pocketed the penny—quick,

My poverty a shame.

We’re dented just

The same.

Metal and pale skin—we are what

They say we are. We cling

To each other

And ding

In the jeans of impoverished gods.

befitting a storm

Here's a little ditty I wrote a couple of years ago commemorating a rare snow for us Birminghamites. We had one of our"winter storms" over the weekend and I thought I'd exhume the poem and post it here for your amusement. Fellow southerners--nod; distant northerners--roll your eyes; elsewhere crows--laugh.

Middle Alabama Snow

We wake to snow

But still incredulous,

Our disbelief like sleep

In dream-deep eyes.

In outsized flakes

Like kindergartners cut

From origami folds,

The snow descends

And reunites

On roofs and shrubbery.

The window watches on

As we look through.

Our wonderment

Is tempered by distrust.

We know the heavy sigh

And shoulder-slump

That come as sure

As morning’s sun, as sure

As he will stand and stretch

His sleep-fresh rays.

Our mittens are

Mismatched and our long-johns

Don’t fit and itch, but time

Won’t stop for us.

It never does.

By afternoon, the thaw

Will break a febrile sweat

Across the knolls

Of matted grass.

With snow in blotches

Like hives-mottled flesh

On hoods of cars

And yellow lawns,

The purple pansy will

Erect its humble head,

Revivified.

So quickly we tie

Our tennis shoes and zip

Our raincoats up. We grab

The boogie-boards

And laundry bins

To sled the nearest slope

And crash and climb and crash

Again. Again.

Then not so smoothly,

Now in mostly

Mud,

But again.

ground gears and crammed craws

Ether, good morning, how are you? I am well. You will be proud, I have borrowed from your Nothingworld. Copied and pasted from Amorphilacious-Antaginons. Facebook, as we call it. It happened like this: a Facsimilarion (FB friend in this case, real friend in all others. Thanks, Mark.) posted a link which got stuck in my craw, whatever that means, though I suspect it's related to grinding one's gears. I commented as is my wont when craw-crammed; and, being lazy by nature and indolent by nurture, I have used the exchange as a post below. How does it feel to plagiarize myself verbatim, you ask? It feels good, real good.

First things first . . . homework. Read this article.

Seriously, you have to read the article first.

Well, I suppose I can't make you read the article so here was my comment in response: [Commence potential alienation]

"Grrr. I would rather kids read something else than have nonesuched-knuckleheads tweak works of art like so much play-dough. He talks as if he's translating a foreign language into English--advisedly using updated parlance over outmoded idiom. ... But he's not. He's translating English into English--absurd in most cases, harmful in this one. The TBS example is questionable. The inoculation of strong language in The Godfather was not, I'd warrant, a function of a will to proliferate the appreciation of art to a broader audience; it was a function of TBS's subjugation to the FCC and obligation to squeamish advertisers.

"Let us read the "n" word in context. If in context, it's use is still objectionable--let us be offended. Let us put the book down or press on, suspending our distaste, pending the outcome, and make our value-judgments as mature, capable readers. Let's not revise our literary history for the sake of our guilt. Let us feel our guilt in all of its reddening force. or just read Berenstain Bears and call it a day."

Now, Ether, that I have killed two platforms with one grumpy stone, I hope I don't change my opinion on this subject. The redaction process is an arduous one--not the least bit hospitable to my lethargic noggin. May I be as stubborn as usual. That being said, I would love to consider an argument less brittle than the Godfather one.

I don't mind changing my mind, it's the effort that irritates me.