Guys, make a bit of room in that boat for me!

FACING THE MUSIC

It's not frost: it's snow
It's not backfire: it's gunfire
It's not fun: it's alcoholism
It's not a tantrum: it's violence
It's not witty: it's abuse
It's not marriage: it's divorce
It's not nothing: it's a lump
It's not fear: it's reality
It's not sleep: it's death
It's not au revoir: it's the end


Mairéad Byrne
Assistant Professor of English
Rhode Island School of Design
Providence, RI 02903
www.wildhoneypress.com
www.maireadbyrne.blogspot.com
>>> [log in to unmask] 06/10/03 08:45 AM >>>
At 11:03 AM 6/10/2003 +0100, you wrote:
>Decree Absolute
>
>
> From the unexpected envelope
>you learn, you're already single.
>
>
>Amazing what they can do with
>computers these days: suddenly
>your background's no longer there
>and you stand in the windy house
>alone.

The comma in the second line seems to my ear unnecessary--but I love the

economy of the thing.  I'm reminded of a song by the Four Tops from the 
late Sixties called "Seven Rooms of Gloom."  Also about a broken 
relationship.  This one...those few lines about the lost background and 
standing alone...well, I am still looking for the words and/or stomach
to 
write about a similar moment, facing the void.  My problem is I run at
the 
mouth and go operatic--this is a good model in the other direction.

Can't resist putting up a similar subject:

FINAL DECREE: CONSUMING THE PRECIOUS BLOOD

It is like a foreign language movie     plotless
its language twisted     gibberish
undercurrented with iron
I find just cause for action here says the Judge
and leaves the bench and I stare at my lawyer     and at her
and her lawyer     and then I ask     what the hell just happened here
it means you're divorced my lawyer     overpriced translator     snaps
her briefcase shut     and my newly-made ex and I don't look
at each other     only this is a lie     because I can't remember
what we do     except I shake her lawyer's hand     and am out
in the parking lot leaning against my car     I feel drunk     I
can feel the kerosene filings of vodka at the back of my throat
but I'm still sober     drive home half-blinded
send our sons an email note: it's finally over     the way I phoned
my cousin six years before to let her know     the night my mother died
and end the note "I love you both"     and I do but am I a liar
because     right then I don't love anyone     except maybe my cat
who stares at me     knows all my dirty secrets     and then     and
then
[ack-ack!] and then along from the freezer comes the Blesséd Pierre
Smirnoff
who really is the Corpus on the Crucifix on the wall,
my empowering God who kills me that I might live     and I raise
the glass of His clear and Precious Blood, both hands elevated
toward the figure on the Cross     to you, my wife, my ex,
mother of my children     Mother of God!--28 years, gone,
the trumpets of the lawyers sound and Time shall be no more!--be happy*
and belch a laugh     drink day into night
because the demons won't be divorced     I can drink
with them but they will not consume with me     only from me
through me     no liquor
just precious blood.

I suspect I really need to cut this one down quite a bit.

ken