Rock Accountant

Month: November, 2015

Poem: Hear Me

The waters would hear my questions
before they rushed back to the sea.
Their answers came back as splashes
that rudely covered me.




Poem: Satchels of Silence

Men carry silence in satchels
filled with oaths,
weaved loosely from malice and murder.
It is what we have always done.
All we are certain of
is that we have forgotten why.


Poem: Not Enough to say

It is not enough to say,
“All is lost.”
When my love is that
which God has tossed,
Just out of my reach
for all my days.
Laying grief upon me
in all known ways.

To invent the world,
where one must fathom,
hearts dropped like leaves,
to a black chasm
I arch my back and scream,
“No, take me.” But
My God just stands there like a tree.


The money that controls the Democrat party also controls the Republican party. People who bitch all day that they are victims of entrenched financial power and influence, which is most of us, need to realize that Donald Trump is our confederate. Certainly what he says has an exaggeration that is borderline dangerous, but remember, black people thought that Obama would change things for them. He did not. Hillary offers us nothing in return except making her happy. We have, at the very least, the right to elect someone who is free.

Terrorism and Turkey legs

I had more than my share of reasons to be thankful this Thanksgiving. Not one of which is that Thanksgiving needs capitalization.
Like many parts of my character, there is an unmistakable dark side. When I understand, that terrorists will do what they will do unstoppably, I digest better knowing they are, day to day, miserable and that I am not.
Wise people say success is the best revenge. Being a reincarnationist, I try hard not to gloat over their misery but this is next to impossible with a turkey leg in my hand, and with thighs slathered by escaped gravy.
I could come back as one of them I know. I just hope that when I do reoccur I take care to protect the weak rather than randomly slaughter children.
The greatest gift is the allowance to struggle to succeed. Without this, we are slugs leaving slime trails to be soon dried out by the sun. I am an American, so I know this kind of shit comes ingrained in me. Still, this is the only prescription left to us by God.

Something of a Cold Customer

Happiness comes to those who wait. The religious prigs and prudes of divinity devoted centuries to winning the allegiance of uneducated, toothless and starving populations using this expression. The poor should postpone their bit of happiness until they die because they have no value on earth. Men of the spirit gave them what was theirs as charity. Show me charity and I look for pride and vanity.
Civilisation does it’s best to handicap the prerogative of forgiveness​ when it comes to imperfection. Even when our sins are silly, still, nobody wants to be lumped in with a neighbour who also masturbates forty-two times a day or pees in the shower or pool.
I grew up among Catholics and always envied them. They had the confession. Methodists, like me, were consigned to hell instantly on ridiculously minor offences. It just occurred to me that we are the black people of sin. We never peed in pools or showers, while my Catholic friends would hold it until they hit the water. They had an out. I did not.
This made me something of a cold customer.
I know women living lives of absolute saints yet they are scarred and rendered timid by self-reproach over something they did as a child. Women are by far the most certainly moral of the several genders it appears we now have.
Men sin with such rhythm​ and with a brute magnitude that nothing matters much to us after a while. Wars and indifference to each other somehow have less consequence. We are certain Hell awaits us. We can forgive ourselves and that makes us very dangerous.

The Red Zone

There was awhile there when I found myself drawn to this Presidential race. Of course, this proved to be little more than the natural complexity that we succumb to early in every football season. Now that I am certain the Steelers have a shot, that Tom Brady is Jesus, and that The Red Zone will continue to so confuse my wife that my meals are improved on Sundays, I am OK if Bill Clinton wins a third term.

My Wife is a Dangerous Immigrant

My wife is a dangerous immigrant. She hid quietly inside our world until she was indistinguishable from the talent around her. Now we get can’t get rid of her. She outranks us.
None of our belittling tactics bridled her. She wore the burka of sexuality that made us dumb, the heels, the makeup and she carried herself with cunning deference.
Now it is too late. There are cells like her now everywhere. Set to detonate.
They recruited from the young. Men are tired and anxious. Too timid to provoke them even to preserve ourselves. We are afraid of their anger. Somehow we think this is all our fault.
We deport them to motherhood when we can, but their leaders return after a time.
We are going to need a wall.

O Tell Me The Truth About Love

O Tell Me The Truth About Love
by W H Auden

Some say love’s a little boy,
And some say it’s a bird,
Some say it makes the world go around,
Some say that’s absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn’t do.

Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It’s quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I’ve found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.

I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn’t over there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton’s bracing air.
I don’t know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn’t in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I’m picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.

Dead Bees by Robert Haas

The young composer, working that summer at an artist’s colony, had watched her for a week. She was Japanese, a painter, almost sixty, and he thought he was in love with her. He loved her work, and her work was like the way she moved her body, used her hands, looked at him directly when she made amused or considered answers to his questions. One night, walking back from a concert, they came to her door and she turned to him and said, “I think you would like to have me. I would like that too, but I must tell you I have had a double mastectomy,” and when he didn’t understand, “I’ve lost both my breasts.” the radiance that he had carried around in his belly and chest cavity–like music–withered, very quickly, and he made himself look at her when he said, “I’m sorry. I don’t think I could.” He walked back to his own cabin through the pines, and in the morning he found a small blue bowl on the porch outside his door. It looked to be full of rose petals, but he found when he picked it up that the rose petals were on top; the rest of the bowl–she must have swept them from the corners of her studio–was full of dead bees.

-Robert Haas

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