(no subject)
[From Krypton Nights, a book of poetry by Bryan Dietrich, this selection is from the perspective of Lex Luthor]
Some Jokes
I.
Two guys standing on a roof in Metropolis.
One says to the other, "I bet I can leap this
rail in a single bound...not get hurt. Wind'll blow
me back like a boomerang." The second fellow,
not to be outdone, takes him up on the wager,
pulls out a sawbuck, lays it on the rail, says, "Sure."
So the first guy straightens his tie, fingers the fall
breeze--an old salt testing his sea--and does a cannonball
over the ledge. Minutes later, winded, he comes back
just long enough to snag his stakes. Two other saps,
watching slack-jawed from across that great, gaping lack
between buildings, see this. Says one to his friend, "Fuck!
Is that guy lucky or what?" His companion passes
it off with a shrug: "That's just Superman in glasses
and a bad suit. How did you think he made a living?
Cracking hard cases, occasional skulls, rescuing
every kid, cat, careening train that runs away?"
You know, folks, I ask myself this same thing, every day.
II.
Peter at the pearly gates, shifting from wing tip
to wing tip. When, out for a stroll, Jesus passes, quips,
"Tough job," his favorite ex-apostle (only human),
he who's needed a bathroom break for a millennium,
asks his Rabbi to stand in for a spell. Jesus,
welcoming a new perspective on all this bliss,
says sure. So Peter shows him what to do. "Just
ask a few questions, cross-reference their answers the best
you can with the concordance here. Make certain you stamp
their hands." Some little while later, an old man walks up.
Jesus asks him his name. "In your language? Joseph."
Occupation in the last life? "Carpenter." A brief
recognition begins to cross Christ's mind. He asks him
if he had any children down below. "One. A shame
he wasn't born normally--he came from a star."
Jesus, really suspicious now, asks, "Did he differ
that much from other boys?" The old man nods.
"He wasn't always human, had a voice like God's
that followed him, guided his ways." Jesus, almost
agog now, says, "You loved him." The geriatric ghost
smiles: "He came to me in answer to my prayers."
Elated, Christ asks, "Did he have any marks, scars?"
"Well," the elder offers, "he had nails in his hands...."
"Father!" exclaims Jesus. "Pinocchio!" cries the man.
III.
Okay, let's see if I can clear this up. The joke's
on us. We think what we want is Law, primal spokes
on a wheel of cosmic order. What we forget is how
wheels turn, evolve, shift as we shift, restless now
in our rumble seats. We neglect, in the rush to solve
our rat problem, the potential mongoose breeding curve.
Do we really want a savior who will know every fall,
hear each sparrow's plumeless plummet? This rare bull
we've loosed amongst what only seems perpetual--
amongst an inventory of arbitrary rules fragile
as china--is not the Mithra we think he is. We mistake
corrective power for correction. He's no fake
(would that it were that simple), but neither is he Christ
or the Lady in the Lake. The Word made flesh? Worst
case scenario. The Law itself? He can't evolve.
No, the paradigms we build, we build to solve
human equations. Stasis, what his steel jaw suggests,
is only as eternal as our last, best jests.
Some Jokes
I.
Two guys standing on a roof in Metropolis.
One says to the other, "I bet I can leap this
rail in a single bound...not get hurt. Wind'll blow
me back like a boomerang." The second fellow,
not to be outdone, takes him up on the wager,
pulls out a sawbuck, lays it on the rail, says, "Sure."
So the first guy straightens his tie, fingers the fall
breeze--an old salt testing his sea--and does a cannonball
over the ledge. Minutes later, winded, he comes back
just long enough to snag his stakes. Two other saps,
watching slack-jawed from across that great, gaping lack
between buildings, see this. Says one to his friend, "Fuck!
Is that guy lucky or what?" His companion passes
it off with a shrug: "That's just Superman in glasses
and a bad suit. How did you think he made a living?
Cracking hard cases, occasional skulls, rescuing
every kid, cat, careening train that runs away?"
You know, folks, I ask myself this same thing, every day.
II.
Peter at the pearly gates, shifting from wing tip
to wing tip. When, out for a stroll, Jesus passes, quips,
"Tough job," his favorite ex-apostle (only human),
he who's needed a bathroom break for a millennium,
asks his Rabbi to stand in for a spell. Jesus,
welcoming a new perspective on all this bliss,
says sure. So Peter shows him what to do. "Just
ask a few questions, cross-reference their answers the best
you can with the concordance here. Make certain you stamp
their hands." Some little while later, an old man walks up.
Jesus asks him his name. "In your language? Joseph."
Occupation in the last life? "Carpenter." A brief
recognition begins to cross Christ's mind. He asks him
if he had any children down below. "One. A shame
he wasn't born normally--he came from a star."
Jesus, really suspicious now, asks, "Did he differ
that much from other boys?" The old man nods.
"He wasn't always human, had a voice like God's
that followed him, guided his ways." Jesus, almost
agog now, says, "You loved him." The geriatric ghost
smiles: "He came to me in answer to my prayers."
Elated, Christ asks, "Did he have any marks, scars?"
"Well," the elder offers, "he had nails in his hands...."
"Father!" exclaims Jesus. "Pinocchio!" cries the man.
III.
Okay, let's see if I can clear this up. The joke's
on us. We think what we want is Law, primal spokes
on a wheel of cosmic order. What we forget is how
wheels turn, evolve, shift as we shift, restless now
in our rumble seats. We neglect, in the rush to solve
our rat problem, the potential mongoose breeding curve.
Do we really want a savior who will know every fall,
hear each sparrow's plumeless plummet? This rare bull
we've loosed amongst what only seems perpetual--
amongst an inventory of arbitrary rules fragile
as china--is not the Mithra we think he is. We mistake
corrective power for correction. He's no fake
(would that it were that simple), but neither is he Christ
or the Lady in the Lake. The Word made flesh? Worst
case scenario. The Law itself? He can't evolve.
No, the paradigms we build, we build to solve
human equations. Stasis, what his steel jaw suggests,
is only as eternal as our last, best jests.