By Tommy George
Exethalamion > Greek: Homage to Divorce
168,000 B.C.
Seventeen-hundred steaming centuries ago
Your future essence was conjured amidst clouds of acrid stink
in an ungroomed farrago, when a gnarly ur-pimp
pinned your greatest granny down at the tar-pit;
she came to in his cave wearing only a bear-skin carpet.
Thus entered politics ancient into the bargain.
(which the giddy old ho still often kissed on)grinned Granny's first mate, a dead, bludgeoned head,
dwelling long on some mooted point
of Ur-pimp's sharpened stick.
Clunk--he never saw it coming.
Ur-Granny survived, on triple-crossed mission;
Her rump-offered cunning, all unctuous swishin'
raising a noseful of ocean ferment.
(This was an epoch before dime-store scent.)
Feminine wiles smacked of tiger spore;
Ur-Granny strong-armed seed thru the door
for transcendent causes she only half-suspected.
She raised them up red, and violent too.
Ur-Pimp was dumb of divinity tendered
by ignorant act of unruly member.
The troglodyte slumbered, Ur-Granny felt sick.
History wrote itself with a soulless prick.
1981 C. E.
Thirty-six years ago, knocked by the same cudgel,
Dumb to the difference between seem and be
I fell enamored by she who seemed
to be Eros' very creature, sent to me.
Although somewhat sickly,
I pledged my trow for eternity.
. . .
Our nuptial runner thru slush plashed the way.
Two of one kind: equally outré.
. . .
exiling love to a bad-smelling hovel,
there to abide in the corpse of a city,
dead on its wheels, and embalmed with cheap whisky.
Some said our cache had slipped just a little.
Never had I been in such a pickle.
Sensitive me took insomniac fright
at the neighborhood bully who worried my life.
He was mountainous, monstrous, hillbilly-white.
Trawling the block in his big yellow Merc,
ten foot a minute he'd float down the curb,
his tranquilized Tonto rode shotgun beside him.
They'd come to a deadly halt where we resided,
and drunkenly the big one threw down the gauntlet
challenging me, fresh-arrived, with his fist-friendly taunt:
“Come on out, man; we’ll see if you can fight.
I say you're dangerous. See if I’m right.”
He kept his own sow penned-up back at their shack,
a loyal wife-woman who dared never back-sass,
just cook and keep dropping more ill-fated children
into lives of calamity--otherwise good’uns
born damned by a man who felt rich amid poverty.
Later I learned he stole friend-Tonto’s wife.
I slept afternoons and guarded the nights.
. . .
to two non-Jews stuck in unholy babble.
As passerby base-heads pumped out ghetto rhythm,
Rattling panes and with such, silencing Steinway.
Chopin felt ill, and took to the highway.
. . .
the ghetto cotillion when Reagan fell.
Ronnie been blown apart, they brayed, passing 'round rum,
though disappointment would soon spoil their fun,
all drank the dead man; all toasted treason.
Such was the culture of forsaken reason:
dumb as dog-shit for polishing shoes,
funny as Grandma strung up on a noose.
None was made happy by subsequent news.
. . .
came the days of our own passionate suffering.
Something took root, despite Onan's fashion,
that wrapped itself round in a most untoward way.
The fruit of our union dropped straight to the grave.
Bidding mutely a saddening farewell;
in
any
case,
dropping two parent-children straight to hell,home alone.
The lost child that was to have been our reflection,
had faded so fast, without lowest of unction,
it dropped us stuporous at an unmapped junction.
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