January 7, 2025: "The Issues," Extremism, "Fat Man"

Okay, okay.  The 2024 U. S. Presidential election has been certified.  The Felon in Chief will be sitting behind the desk in the Oval Office again on January 20, 2025.  He's still batshit crazy.  He still won't take responsibility for any of the terrible things he's done, like, say, inciting an angry mob to storm the Capitol or causing the deaths of thousands of American citizens through his mishandling of the COVID pandemic or selling the country to his pal, Elon.  Maroon 45 is soon going to be running the country, whether I like it or not.

I could simply ignore social media for the next four years.  Not pay attention to anything that contains the letters T, R, U, M, and P.  Wait for the impending political implosion, which will happen, sooner or later.  You can't put imbeciles in charge of the station and expect the trains to arrive on time.  (Yes, that is a not-so-veiled allusion to Benito Mussolini.)

Yet, there's also a part of me that wants to watch it all with my eyes wide open.

Sharon Olds keeps her eyes open . . . 

The Issues

by: Sharon Olds

(Rhodesia, 1978)

Just don't tell me about the issues.
I can see the pale spider-belly head of the
newborn who lies on the lawn, the web of
veins at the surface of her scalp, her skin
grey and gleaming, the clean line of the 

bayonet down the center of her chest.

I see her mother's face, beaten and 

beaten into the shape of a plant,
a cactus with grey spines and broad 

dark maroon blooms.
I see her arm stretched out across her baby,
wrist resting, heavily, still, across the
tiny ribs.
               Don't speak to me about
politics. I've got eyes, man.

Any kind of extremism can lead to atrocity, as Olds rightly points out in today's poem.  Innocent people will be harmed, whether it's putting immigrant children in cages or dropping nuclear bombs on cities.  Blood will be shed. 

It's a difficult time right now in my country.  It feels like everybody's preparing, in one way or another, for Hurricane Donny to make landfall.  Boarding up windows.  Moving to higher ground (Canada).  Or buying bibles and gold shoes.  Paying $1000 to pray with the Not-So-Great Pumpkin and the Third Lady.  Extreme behaviors bring out the best and worst in people.

I try to avoid extremes.  I'm more of a let's-think-about-this-for-a-minute person.  When something upsets me, I prefer to take some breaths, go for a walk, withdraw.  I need time and space to do an inventory of myself, figure out what's going on inside my head and/or heart.

This morning, my wife woke up feeling shitty.  She took a COVID test, and darn it if that little second line didn't pop up almost immediately.  My son and I both tested negative, much to my son's chagrin (I think he was hoping for a few days off).  So, we headed off to work and school, and my wife hit the couch with pillow, blanket, and Kleenex.  

These days, almost everyone seems to treat COVID as nothing more than a bad head cold.  Four-plus years ago, a positive test felt like a death sentence.  Two extremes.  Granted, four-plus years ago--with no vaccine and hospitals and morgues filled to capacity--things were much more dire.  (Thanks again to the Felon in Chief.  Pandemic deniers, please go take your borax baths.)  I found out today, however, that some employers insist you show up to work, even if you test positive.  

I'm doing all I can not to get sick.  Wearing a mask.  Drinking lots of water.  Staying a safe distance from my poor wife.  Popping echinacea tablets.  I will see what tomorrow morning holds in store for me.  If I can get through another day without any symptoms, I think I'm in the clear.  Above all, though, I know that if I get sick, I'll be fine.  Science works, and climate change is real.  (Sorry, MAGA morons.)

Saint Marty wrote a poem today about extremism, based on this prompt from The Daily Poet:

Compare your happiness to an atomic bomb or to something dangerous or frightening.  How is your happiness the same as an atomic bomb?  What images do you see if you were to imagine your happiness exploding in the desert?  Think about all of the details related to the atomic bomb or something else dangerous, such as a tidal wave or tornado, and imagine your happiness about having those qualities.  Allow the poem to be as realistic or surreal as you wish.

Fat Man

by: Martin Achatz

Fat Man was 40 percent stronger

than Little Boy, its sun

going nova over Nagasaki

just three days after

the dawn of the the Nuclear Age,

like a second punchline

to a joke nobody found

funny.  I've seen pictures--

incinerated buildings, people's

backs and faces tattooed 

with boils and burns--had

to turn the page, click away

on my laptop screen, because

anything that extreme

(suffering or happiness)

shouldn't exist.  Imagine

joy so powerful it levels

neighborhoods, rearranges

cells, makes unborn babies

glow in their mother's bellies.

Joy that is God's finger

reaching down to send

this world spinning 

in a completely different

direction, so that geese

fly north for winter,

people retire to Alaska

to avoid snow shovels,

frozen gas lines, dead

car batteries.  I'm not sure

I ever want to be that happy.

I'd rather have mediocre

happiness, where my oatmeal

is cold in the morning, but

the brown sugar in it

is sweet, reminds me

of the liver spots on my

mother's hands.  Where

the sun keeps its distance, 

plays hide and seek 

with clouds all day,

then goes to bed, not

in a blaze of sherbet

horizon, but the way

a grandma climbs

under her quilt, reaches over,

pulls the chain to turn

off the nightstand light.

That's my kind 

of happiness, without

air raid sirens or

fallout shelters.  Happiness

where, if someone knock

knocks on my door, 

I'm not afraid to say,

Who's there?