549: The Ides of Amer-I-Can
“The Ides of Amer-I-Can”
Kevin McFadden
O tempora! O mores! -Cicero
I write in times of plus and minus, in
decades of division. I write in times
when what's said aloud is sometimes
not allowed said. The brain's in halves,
the heart's in half-knots. In times when
pronouns take the place of nouns and
proverbs take the place of thought. Times
of humanity's peak-ruts: assaults on clear
new summits (and summits on nuclear assault).
When the Air Force aims high and diplomacy
dips low. I write in times when ink seems
obsolete, pens dead. I write on a computer
whose newspaper-named fonts beg
outrageous multiplication. I write in Times.
Her T-shirt exclaims NF! and this is America
all right, that said it, NF is enough, and
yeah, it's clever, but lacks a clear referent:
of what? She's dressed kinda feminist
so maybe that's her beef: NF
of this crap, NF of the way you
bastards look at me-basta bastardi!
for those of you who ogle in Italian-
NF sentences and sentiments like
"She's dressed kinda feminist," NF
ineffables, let's try saying something useful.
The N is on her right breast, the F the left.
I visibly introduce myself to N.
She verbally introduces me to "F- you."
My grandpa used to say as we'd drive
the backroads, "Never forget, son, American
ends in I-can," giving me a license
before I needed it. I'd perch on his lap
to steer, he'd shift and work the pedals; hey,
it really looked like the world was racing
for me. Never swerved toward, "But, Grandpa,
so does Mex-ican-and where did that get them?"
Where would that put me? Agree with grandpa
and drive-dissent, boy, gets you nowhere.
Took years to see the bugs in the grill, the Sunday
roadkill half-dressed in a ditch, before grasping
the unspoken right-of-way. Amer-I-can,
really. One possum better off dead.
We've clocked the sneeze doing 90.
In seconds, it can work a room. My wife
seizes up and lets hers go in two iambic bursts.
(It's cute, it's cute.) Our sneezes, we know,
are ours for life, however accomplished:
my solid hoot, her teensy twos, the three or
more (I'm guessing) you're doomed to repeat-
just reflex. By history, then, do we mean
we want nothing to sneeze at? Jamestown
to James Brown in a few hundred blinks, Plato
to NATO in the space to sneeze. Is it me,
dear wife, or is the world looking less
like a "Man's Man's Man's World?"
Itsyou, she doubles up, itsyou.
Today even blood can kill, I can tell
through a bag marked BIOHAZARD. Doc says
my back is bad, recommends more foam
in the sole ("With these shoes you hardly
feel the earth"). Nothing's touching, I notice
around the sterilized office: tray here, pads there,
swabs over some. Gloves between me
and my healer, paper between me
and the seat, latex between lovers, what's it
coming to? Expanse's expense is a distance
you can learn from any pre-packaged fork
in the hospital café, eating in our cultural
fashion, with middlemen, no fingers. Clean
utensils for hands who knows what's on.
Kevin McFadden
O tempora! O mores! -Cicero
I write in times of plus and minus, in
decades of division. I write in times
when what's said aloud is sometimes
not allowed said. The brain's in halves,
the heart's in half-knots. In times when
pronouns take the place of nouns and
proverbs take the place of thought. Times
of humanity's peak-ruts: assaults on clear
new summits (and summits on nuclear assault).
When the Air Force aims high and diplomacy
dips low. I write in times when ink seems
obsolete, pens dead. I write on a computer
whose newspaper-named fonts beg
outrageous multiplication. I write in Times.
Her T-shirt exclaims NF! and this is America
all right, that said it, NF is enough, and
yeah, it's clever, but lacks a clear referent:
of what? She's dressed kinda feminist
so maybe that's her beef: NF
of this crap, NF of the way you
bastards look at me-basta bastardi!
for those of you who ogle in Italian-
NF sentences and sentiments like
"She's dressed kinda feminist," NF
ineffables, let's try saying something useful.
The N is on her right breast, the F the left.
I visibly introduce myself to N.
She verbally introduces me to "F- you."
My grandpa used to say as we'd drive
the backroads, "Never forget, son, American
ends in I-can," giving me a license
before I needed it. I'd perch on his lap
to steer, he'd shift and work the pedals; hey,
it really looked like the world was racing
for me. Never swerved toward, "But, Grandpa,
so does Mex-ican-and where did that get them?"
Where would that put me? Agree with grandpa
and drive-dissent, boy, gets you nowhere.
Took years to see the bugs in the grill, the Sunday
roadkill half-dressed in a ditch, before grasping
the unspoken right-of-way. Amer-I-can,
really. One possum better off dead.
We've clocked the sneeze doing 90.
In seconds, it can work a room. My wife
seizes up and lets hers go in two iambic bursts.
(It's cute, it's cute.) Our sneezes, we know,
are ours for life, however accomplished:
my solid hoot, her teensy twos, the three or
more (I'm guessing) you're doomed to repeat-
just reflex. By history, then, do we mean
we want nothing to sneeze at? Jamestown
to James Brown in a few hundred blinks, Plato
to NATO in the space to sneeze. Is it me,
dear wife, or is the world looking less
like a "Man's Man's Man's World?"
Itsyou, she doubles up, itsyou.
Today even blood can kill, I can tell
through a bag marked BIOHAZARD. Doc says
my back is bad, recommends more foam
in the sole ("With these shoes you hardly
feel the earth"). Nothing's touching, I notice
around the sterilized office: tray here, pads there,
swabs over some. Gloves between me
and my healer, paper between me
and the seat, latex between lovers, what's it
coming to? Expanse's expense is a distance
you can learn from any pre-packaged fork
in the hospital café, eating in our cultural
fashion, with middlemen, no fingers. Clean
utensils for hands who knows what's on.