October 16: "Old Man Eating Alone in a Chinese Restaurant," To Do, Felon in Chief

Every morning, when I get to my library office, I make a list of things I want to accomplish.  And every night, when I get home, I'm disappointed at how little I've actually done.  It's an exercise in supreme disappointment.  

However, today, all seven of my "to do" items have been "to done."  Writing this blog post is the last task, and then I can relax.  Maybe eat a piece of leftover chicken or some cheesecake.

Billy Collins enjoys some sweet and sour pork . . . 

Old Man Eating Alone in a Chinese Restaurant

by: Billy Collins

I am glad I resisted the temptation,
if it was a temptation when I was young,
to write a poem about an old man
eating alone at a corner table in a Chinese restaurant.

I would have gotten it all wrong
thinking: the poor bastard, not a friend in the world
and with only a book for a companion.
He'll probably pay the bill out of a change purse.

So glad I waited all these decades
to record how hot and sour the hot and sour
soup is here at Chang's this afternoon
and how cold the Chinese beer in a frosted glass.

And my book—José Saramago's Blindness
as it turns out—is so absorbing that I look up
from its escalating horrors only
when I am stunned by one of his gleaming sentences.

And I should mention the light
that falls through the big windows this time of day
italicizing everything it touches—
the plates and teapots, the immaculate tablecloths,

as well as the soft brown hair of the waitress
in the white blouse and short black skirt,
the one who is smiling now as she bears a cup of rice
and shredded beef with garlic to my favorite table in the corner.

Collins has become the old man eating alone in a Chinese restaurant that he imagined when he was young.  Of course, the reality is very different from the fantasy.  For young Collins, the old man was desperately friendless, with only the companionship of a book.  Old Collins knows different.  He knows the pleasure of eating hot and sour soup alone with just a good book for company.  

Expectations are rarely accurate.  For example, all the MAGA Republicans believe their lives are going to be so much better if the Felon in Chief is elected President of the United States again.  In reality, the only person's life that will improve is the Felon in Chief's.  Because he's a narcissist, among other things.

Tomorrow, I will not finish my to-do list.  I say this with absolute certainty.  At the end of the day, I will feel like a total failure.  Keep in mind, I'm the one that sets unrealistic goals for myself.  Perhaps I need to shoot a little lower with my tasks.  Rather than "Write a poem about eating alone in a Chinese restaurant," I could just "Brush my teeth" or "Tie my shoelaces."

Tonight, however, I celebrated my completed list with a walk.  The almost full moon hanging above me, dogs barking in the distance.  I even walked by the Trump house (a neighbor who's been flying Trump flags since 2016) and didn't feel the urge to shit on his lawn.

Yes, Saint Marty is feeling THAT good about himself and the world.  

August 28: "Nine Horses," Birthday Wish, QAnon Shaman

I promised you something silly tonight because my last few posts have been a little heavy.  So let me talk about what I want for my birthday this year after Billy Collins tells us about his birthday present . . .

Nine Horses

by: Billy Collins

For my birthday, 

my wife gave me nine horse heads, 

ghostly photographs on squares of black marble, 

nine squares set in one large square, 

a thing so heavy that the artist himself 

volunteered to hang it 

from a wood beam against a white stone wall. 

Pale heads of horses in profile 

as if a flashcube had caught them walking in the night. 

Pale horse heads 

that overlook my reading chair, 

the eyes so hollow they must be weeping, 

the mouths so agape they could be dead— 

the photographer standing over them 

on a floor of straw, his black car parked by the stable door. 

Nine white horses, 

or one horse the camera has multiplied by nine. 

It hardly matters, such sadness is gathered here

in their long white faces 

so far from the pasture and the cube of sugar— 

the face of St. Bartholomew, the face of St. Agnes, 

Odd team of horses, 

pulling nothing, 

look down on these daily proceedings. 

Look down upon this table and these glasses, 

the furled napkins,

the evening wedding of the knife and fork. 

Look down like a nine-headed god 

and give us a sign of your displeasure 

or your gentle forbearance 

so that we may rejoice in the error of our ways. 

Look down on this ring 

of candles flickering under your pale heads. 

Let your suffering eyes 

and your anonymous deaths 

be the bridle that keeps us from straying from each other 

be the cinch that fastens us to the belly of each day 

as it gallops away, hooves sparking into the night.

I have a neighbor down the street who has been flying Trump flags and displaying Trump signs since 2016.  He just recently added some Trump/Vance merchandise to his collection.  That's eight years, folks.  Eight years of seeing that name every morning and every night--through the pandemic, January 6th insurrection, entire Biden administration, and all the convictions the Felon in Chief has collected so far.  

My birthday wish is pretty simple:  I want my neighborhood Trump Super Store to shut down.  I'm tired of being reminded all the time of the misogyny, homophobia, xenophobia, and ignorance that exists in the world.  

I know that it doesn't matter what the outcome of this year's election is--I'm stuck with the QAnon Shaman living down the street.  It's an infection that just isn't going to go away.

But Saint Marty can dream, can't he?