Tuesday, March 06, 2012

I was in a battle once. Nine year-old to nine year-old combat. Big stick to big stick. Martha, from the bottom of the hill, and me. I'm pretty sure she started it. Her bunch was trying to keep my frinds and me from the path that led down to our best play spot-a pond and its swampy environs. Martha was being even bossier than usual and then this wierd fight started between the two of us. The whole mob split into sides, everybody was shouting, but Martha and I were deadly quiet as we did stick to stick (oh, yeah, we really had big sticks) Robin Hood and Friar Tuck type combat. I can still conjure those feelings: furious, scared, out of control, and above all shocked that I had gotten into such a mess. One of my big brothers, Drago or Bobby, got between us and Mark, Martha's brother, got her mother, who came out and yelled, mostly at me, and the war ended. It had probably only lasted twenty minutes, and no one got hurt, but the whole thing shook me up in all kinds of ways. I ran home and straight to my mother's lap, like a little kid. Cried off and on the rest of the day. Mom didn't even scold me. No need.

When I was in my teens, protesting against the war we had going then, I thought the "make love not war message" would take hold, it seemed so sensible, but, no, it hasn't. There's still violence all over the damn place. Bomb talk, you know? Amazing. Bigfuckingstick bombs.  Where are the big brothers? Where are the moms?

On another note:

In an Effort to Forestall Self-Pity, I've Been Pondering

bowls of spaghetti with fresh marinara
family tossed stories of our living and dead
coffee, jokes, confessions with cake,

cobbled streets, shady footpaths, corners to turn,
hotels with verandas and gardens, no pools,
bookstores with feelings, small time cafés,

musicians to fall for, a loudmouth to hate
newborns to visit, fences to fix,
payments, thank yous, grand plans to make.

Until I feel better,
my desk will work fine.
Rain today, sun tomorrow
play your cards, take your time.

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