The poet (that’s me)
And his boss,
A business hotshot,
Meet a stumbling bum
On the sidewalk.
The poet and his boss
Are walking a short block
From the boss’s BMW to a client meeting.
Who knows where the rummy bum
Is headed, besides downhill?
His secret mission propels him toward us,
His pants held up by rope,
His shoes flapping
Like gnawing rats.
His eyes have melted into gummy wax.
“Ah-ha,” says the hoo-ha hotshot,
Armored in his Armani.
“Watch this.”
Leaning into the bum,
He sticks out his hand with this greeting:
“Hey buddy, can you spare some change?”
The poet’s boss poses with his hand extended,
Then throws back his head and roars.
His mockery scorches every ear.
It echoes everywhere, even down the years
To here.
The bum roars back:
Asshole, cocksucker,
Shithead, motherfucker.
He claims the street, rage-crazed Lear off stage.
The poet freezes,
Silent among this uproar
This uproarious laughter,
This outrageous rage.
The boss laughs down from his tower of privilege,
The bum climbs higher in his fury
And the poet freezes in between,
Neither rich nor poor,
Fearing success, expecting loss,
Neither drunk nor sober,
Drinking too much, beginning on the death march toward the bum,
But desperate to climb upward toward the boss.
And so we stood, picture perfect
My boss looking down on a lower drunk.
The drunk tremoring and towering in rage
Looking down on the boss,
Me looking down on the bum,
My looming future self,
And sneering up at my asshole aspiration.
All of us on our high horses
Galloping in all directions.
Judging up, judging down,
Judging all around the town.
Three judges in a circle jerk
All in a day’s work.
From this brief street scene
It’s just a short hop to the right
In your luxury sedan
To the St. Amnesius High School
Where you can play the man,
Chase down a gayboy,
Cut his hair against his will,
Enjoy the thrill,
Then forget it ever happened.
It’s all just teasing anyway
Nothing to make you queasy
Easy to shove from sight
So it won’t haunt your nights.
Other neighborhood landmarks
Include Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo
Where you can hone your skills in enhanced teasing.
Geronimo!
Or follow the path of the drunk.
Go forward to the basement stairs
Of the Despairing Bear Bar and Grill
With its tab that quickly mounts to a lethal bill
And its famous one-way elevator,
All downhill.
Seriously, no one’s ever going to see you later.
Or just blunder along with the poet
And watch over the years
As he plays both boss and bum.
Scorning upward on a Tuesday
Sneering down on Thursday.
Now at a distance of some years
I see us all blurring on a carousel
Of judgment.
I am first the poet, then the boss,
Then the slurring drunk,
Then all at once I’m
All at once,
Each of us so cluttered up with junk
There is no space for grace.
Live in a poverty of spirit,
And every day is judgment day.
Each assigned to his separate cell
Each condemned to his private hell.
The walls I build to shut you out
Become the well that keeps me in.
What begins on superior highs
Devolves to a life of sin and lies.
Lord, I know I crafted this my cage
Out of iron bars of fear and rage.
But how, O Lord, can I get free
Unless you batter it and me?
I cannot free myself of me:
Me cannot free myself of I.
Me myself and I –
Unholy trinity till we die.
Lord, before you finally set me free,
Give me this day when you deliver me from me.
Jon Bell 