One Giant Cosmic Joke

I found it hard not to snicker
at feminist bumper stickers
that read “Goddess on the Loose,”
knowing full well that
if there were a God,
He certainly wouldn’t be a woman.

Lately, though, I’ve begun to rethink
what was never clearly thunk at all.
Could I have angered some
half-naked Goddess with a twisted
sense of humor, one who’s decided
to punish past indiscretions?

If so, that could explain
why I’m suddenly more concerned
with how the Chicken Breasts Ala Rivera
are going to taste and reach the table
than how fulsome the buxom young waitress
looks in that short little outfit.

Perhaps it could explain why
hot flashes seemed much funnier
when it wasn’t me waking up
in the middle of the night
in a cold sweat wondering
what new Hell awaits me.

Ultimately, it might even explain
why lately far too many strangers
want to put things inside
my body where
they just plain don’t belong.

Drained

Minutes after parking
in the rented-out
Christian Scientist
parking lot,
I lay here tossing
just as I imagine Mary Baker
must be in her grave.

You’d think it would
have been enough
to have replaced my
testosterone,
with female hormones.

Surely they could leave
some small sign of my
red-blooded manhood.
But no, these angels of mercy
have come to bleed me
as white as their dresses.

Today even my chi
seems taied in knots,
and I’m left with little more
than this feeble sense of humor
or what’s left of it,
to defend myself,

turning paler and paler
as each precious drop drains away,
a nearly invisible man,
little more than a few stray
electrons flitting across a tenuous
web of relationships.

TAPPED OUT


Mailbox jammed,
desperate appeals
crying the world ends
TOMORROW
unless you care enough
to send us
more than you have.

With the best of intentions,
they seem desperate
to convince you unless
you’re feeling depressed,
you’re probably not
feeling at all.

The more you care,
the more they seem
to want, ’til caring’s
no longer a solution,
just one more source of pain
in an already pain full world.

In your dreams you finally
waken to find yourself
standing at an intersection,
hand out,
holding a sign reading
” World Ends Tomorrow.”

Finding Neverland

Though I spent a considerable time studying filmmaking at Portland State, I’ve never been particularly interested in writing about films. In fact, the only other movie I can remember discussing in three years of blogging was Frida, but I have to tell you that Finding Neverland was easily my favorite movie of the year.

Being a Johnny Depp fan initially attracted me to the movie, but I’ve seen many Depp movies without wanting to write about them. Though no Edward Scissorhands, Neverland still strikes me as a great movie.

It is a feel-good movie, as one might expect from a movie about the author of Peter Pan, but it is certainly not Pollyannaish. In fact, tragic elements in the story beautifully counterbalance what might have easily eroded into a kids’ movie. Of course, a quick glance at the net reveals that the true, “true-story” is even more tragic than the one presented in the movie, but it’s a delicately-balanced movie, that delicate balance perhaps being one of its greatest strengths.

In retrospect, I wonder if I didn’t like Finding Neverland for the same reasons I liked Frida. Specifically, both movies used innovative filmmaking techniques to convey an artist’s perception of his world in a way that could only be done through film. The audience is seamlessly transported back and forth between the artist’s real life and his artworks. We see how events or people in the artist’s life are transformed by the artist’s imagination into works of art.

We see how the artist used his imagination to transcend his life. Though some might be tempted to describe Barrie’s art as mere “escapism,” and there’s certainly some aspect of that in Peter Pan, one could also argue that there’s an element of “escapism” in most artwork. In a sense, even a great protest work like Picasso’s Guernica simultaneously protests the brutality of war while transforming that brutality to art, transmuting it to something quite different than the original act.

In the end the true artist becomes alchemist, transforming the dull dross of a past that never quite was to golden memories or weaving the dull reality of everyday life into dreams of a Golden Age.