August 1: "See No Evil," Homeless Problem, "Unclean"

Billy Collins monkeys around . . . 

See No Evil

by: Billy Collins

No one expected all three of them

to sit there on their tree stumps forever,

their senses covered with their sinuous paws

so as to shut out the vile, nefarious world.

As it happened,

it was the one on the left

who was the first to desert his post

uncupping his ears,

then loping off into the orbit of rumors and lies,

but also into the realm of symphonies,

the sound of water tumbling over rocks

and wind stirring the leafy domes of trees.

Then the monkey on the right lowered his hands

from his wide mouth and slipped away

in search of someone to talk to,

some news he could spread,

maybe something to curse or shout about.

And that left the monkey in the middle

alone with his silent vigil,

shielding his eyes from depravity's spectacle,

blind to the man whipping his horse,

the woman shaking her baby in the air,

but also unable to see

the russet sun on a rough shelf of rock

and apples in the grass at the base of a tree.

Sometimes, he wonders about the other two,

listens for the faint sounds of their breathing

up there on the mantel

alongside the clock and the candlesticks.

And some nights in the quiet house

he wishes he could break the silence with a question,

but he knows the one on his right

would not be able to hear,

and the one to his left,

according to their sacred oath--

the one they all took with one paw raised--

is forbidden forever to speak, even in reply.

It's so easy to be one of these monkeys--ignoring all the evils and cruelties of the world.  Being self-centered.  Humans have selective memories.  We erase the shit that hurts us and cling to what makes us happy.  This fact explains how we ended up with Donald Trump running for President of the United States again.  Mitch McConnell--see no evil.  Lindsey Graham--hear no evil.  However, Republicans do have a habit of speaking evil.  A lot.

In a way, though, we all have a habit of looking away from tragedy and disaster.  One of the first pieces of advice I received on my first trip to New York City was not to look at or even acknowledge homeless people.  I understand this warning, but I had a hard time following it.  At the end of most days in the Big Apple, I had no loose change or dollar bills left in my pockets.  

I live in a country where school shootings happen with alarming frequency.  In fact, they're so common that most people I know barely acknowledge them anymore.  Tragedy has become as common as meatloaf.  Mass shootings sometimes aren't even headline news.  The monkey oath at work again.

People say we have a homeless "problem" where I live.  When I'm working at the library, I encounter a lot of homeless people, especially in the winter when temperatures are brutally (almost fatally) cold in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  I don't ignore these individuals, but I also don't go out of my way to help them out.  Sure, I donate canned goods to food drives and organize fundraising events for local shelters.  I could do a lot more.  Maybe I have a little bit of the monkey in me, as well.

I wrote with one of my best poet pals again this morning.  Worked for half a day at the library.  Drove home, did some laundry, prepared for the online poetry workshop I was supposed to lead tonight.  (Nobody showed up for the workshop, so I went for a walk with my wife, instead.)  Now, I'm watching the Paris Olympics.

I'm a lucky guy.  I have family and friends who love me.  A roof over my head.  Food in the fridge.  Jobs that almost pay all my bills.  A really cute puppy.  Good health.  It's so easy to take all these blessings for granted.

Saint Marty, though,  isn't taking anything for granted tonight, including the fan that's keeping him cool right now.

Unclean

by: Martin Achatz

He was homeless, obvious to anyone

who saw his dirty denim shorts,

ripped tee shirt, shoes that weren't

really shoes anymore but rather

fabric and rubber bound to his feet

with leather laces crisscrossed

from his toes to ankles, looking

like tiny boa constrictors.  Men, women,

children gave wide berth, cast glances

at him as they passed, the younger

merely curious, the older with a pallor

of fear in their cheeks, as if they expected

him to start banging a tin cup for money

or food or in warning, like in Biblical 

times when lepers rang bells, called out 

"Unclean!" as strangers approached.  

I passed him several times as I worked 

through the library, him paging through 

a book that contained pictures of finches

and jays and raptors, his lips moving

silently over the text as if he was

cramming for a final exam.  I never

spoke with him or offered him coffee

or maybe one of the apples from my lunch.

I just let him sit there, a solitary island

filled with the cries of birds and slaps

of emerald and vermillion wings.

October 3: Done For, Doctor's Appointment, Shingles Fairy Tale

"I'm done for," she replied.  "In a day or two I'll be dead.  I haven't even strength enough to climb down into the crate.  I doubt if I have enough silk in my spinnerets to lower me to the ground."

Okay, so I'm not quite as bad off as Charlotte.  However, I have been feeling really poorly this last week.  Pressure in my ear.  Pain on the top of my head.  Difficulty when I swallow.  I thought it was some kind of sinus infection, so I made an appointment to see a doctor this afternoon.

When I got to the appointment, the doctor looked in my ear.  She turned off the lights in the exam room and checked out my eye.  Then, she ran her hand lightly over the side of my scalp that's been giving me trouble, saying, "Does this hurt?"  It did.

Well, the doctor didn't come up with a definitive diagnosis, but she's hasn't ruled out...shingles.  No, I haven't had any rashes.  No, I don't have any oozing sores.  However, to be on the safe side, the doctor prescribed me a prophylactic shingles medication.  "It won't do any harm," she said.

So, here I sit, the day before Saint Marty's Day Eve, feeling a little like a leper.  I'm not done for, like Charlotte, but I feel itchy all over my body.  I can't stop scratching.  I know it's all psychological, but it's driving me crazy.

Once upon a time, a handsome, young carpenter named Job lived on the outskirts of the kingdom of Shingles.  Job built barns for the farmers, stools for the pub, windmills for the local green energy hippies.  Job had everything he wanted.

Then, one day, Job's house burned down, his tools disappeared, all his teeth fell out, hair sprouted on his palms, and pus wept from his pores.

The whole kingdom of Shingles stopped hiring Job for carpentry work, and Job's friends shunned him.  When Job went shopping at the farmer's market, he had to ring a cowbell and shout, "Unclean!  Unclean!"

Moral of the story:  if your name is Job, change it.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Does this guy have shingles?