May 25: Beatnik Saturday, New Poem, "Extreme Unction," New Cartoon

This Saturday of Memorial Day weekend, I'm looking forward to three days of relaxation.  Well, I'll relax as much as I can relax.  I still have to play the pipe organ for two church services (one tonight, one tomorrow morning).  I still have to write some blog posts, and I have a book I want to finish reading this weekend.  That's my definition of relaxation.

I have a new poem for you today.  This one's been sitting and percolating in my head for a couple of weeks, slowly taking shape.

Saint Marty can't wait to have some barbecue this weekend.

Extreme Unction

Swaddled by AIDS in hospital bed.
Unlimbed by bombs in Afghanistan.
Unhinged by helix in mind.
Stunned by stroke, macheted by Hutu.
Unbreasted by cancer, unvoiced by dictator.
Addicted by birth, unmemoried by age.
Jack Kennedy at Parkland Memorial,
wide-eyed on the stretcher,
Jackie staring into his wrecked face.
Twenty six at Sandy Hook,
taken on a sunny December morning
just before Christmas break.
My father sits with them all,
the wounded, ruined, helpless,
waits for the priest's prayer and oil.
To the man in black, he whispers,
This is for my wife, accepts it,
carries it home on his foreheard,
cupped in his palms, like winter
run-off.  He gives it to my mother,
pours it over her feet, legs, hands, head.
He hopes she will jump out of her chair
and start cooking him liver and onions
the way she did when they were first
married, standing in front of the stove,
singing a Doris Day song, hair wrapped
in a blue kerchief, hips swaying,
looking as if she will live forever.

Confessions of Saint Marty