What I Remember About Circumcision!

I can remember quite a lot of my early childhood. Our family had many, many good times. But what I wanna talk about is circumcision. Ouch!

Now, I don't "think" I remember being circumcised. And, that's probably a good thing. But, I did dream about it (kinda). This would have been when I was quite young, because I remember my brother and I still shared a bedroom. Anyway...

In my dream, I was an infant, and I was being carried into some sort of tent. Like a tepee, I suppose. I remember feeling this place was very, very old. I want to say "ancient", but am not sure if I knew that word at the time.

So anywho, I'm carried into this tent, and it is night, and there are small fires all around. I can see the fires, but not the tents, but they had to be there. And I'm brought inside, naked, and there are women sitting around a fire. I got the sense that these women were generations of relatives, somehow "more important" than my mom and dad. I got the feeling that these women were important to everybody.

So I was handed to one of the women, I can't remember if she was black or white or whatever, as that would be fascinating, and she cradled me in her arms. Another woman took a knife (yes, the kind you are imagining, bone handle, the works), and placed it in the fire. There was no fear, by the way. When it was glowing hot, she brought it to the woman holding me and she circumcised me. I don't remember any blood or anything. So was this dream influenced by my body remembering? Wild!

So, I wrote a poem about it. It's free! It's... It's The Bone!

And They Carried It Through the Streets

My mother held me in a blanket.

Held me in a fever on grandmother’s bed.

I remember the heat – it was intense

and personal as any castration myth.

The fevered dream I had was of scissors,

hot stones and people who smoked herbs

in warm circles. A woman in colored hides and face paint

held a knife to the altar of my brown foreskin.

Another dream, in third grade – the teacher

diced my penis and threw it to me. I caught it,

but not before tiny cubes of flesh

fell through my fingers to the floor. I still wake

bloody sometimes. I cup my crotch

and sweating, spilling seed, wish

for a different interpretation

of Ouranos or the Holy Bible.

The first alcohol I had was when I was about 15. Kinda a late bloomer for what was to come. I remember my best friend showed me a couple beers he had acquired, and asked if I wanted to try it. I did. I think I drank about half of the can (I believe it was Schlitz, or some sort of swill); it was amazing. I was plastered! I don't know if it was my proclivities to such a thing or the passage of time, but I recall very little of the day other than that beer.

The first time I drank alcoholically was when I was 17. A thing had just happened, and I couldn't sleep. I was selling pints of hard alcohol to my classmates by then, and thought, "Well, I have a liquor store in my closet...a little nip will help me sleep." It did! Wonder of Wonders! Thus began my real affair with alcohol. I knew it was problem drinking, but ignored this fact and kept at it. Even in high-school, I was obsessed. I would painfully wait for the weekend.

Many baffling stories later, I present this poem to you, about my affair. It's titled "A Affair," because, well, AA. Anywho, stick this in, break it off, and let The Bone stay inside you:

A Affair

I’m in love with Alcohol.

She’s my hottie, my main squeeze.

I can have a different lover every night.

A Manhattan when I want a

city sophisticate,

a White Russian for my identity crisis,

Sex on the Beach for the exhibitionist in me.

And Coors sweating cold for the Cowboys,

Bloody Marys when I wanna ride that Red Tide.

a Hurricane for a quick fuck    up

and a Black Cow for those lonely Nebraska evenings…

Alabama Slammer for those southern sheriff nights,

fuzzy navels for my fixation

and a stiff    Tom           Collins              when

I want to reverse the roles and get fucked      up     

my     ass and a Shirley Temple when I want

to take a life but have no balls so I fuck     one     up.

She’s perfect for parties.

Champagne for a formal,

cans of Bud for the big game,

Vodka and Red Bull

for all-night raves.

And this lady, like Jesus, saves.

All the affairs I’ve had with

gin, tequila, scotch on the rocks

are forgiven on Sunday with a little bit of wine

three hail Mary’s

and Hennessy    for after the sermon

because I ain’t yet filled with the spirit.

And even 80-year-old Brandy can go all night,

can fuck me till I sleep, and when I wake she’s always there –

She never leaves me lonely.

This Coffee is Strong, Yo!

...and thanks to Aaron Stuvie for getting me started on this with his whole ",Yo!" blog inclusion. Anywho, this coffee is strong, yo! And I can't even believe what has already happened today. I rebooted my iPod but that's not all! I wrote a poem about the flooding in Pakistan. It's below.

NPR said money isn't getting to the children fast enough. Yeah, it's children. They say that it may be, in part, because the flooding happened over several days and wasn't a sudden inundation. They said if it was sudden, like a car wreck, people would identify and send more aid. Since it's slow, like cancer, they said many people were all like, "meh!" Can you believe it? Oh, and they have nukes. Just FYI n all.

I got a poem forthcoming in Breadcrumb Scab! It's my piece about sex slavery in America, "Escape from North Korea." I'd publish that one, but I can't really have it online. This coffee is pretty strong. It's Folgers Black Silk. We have coffee coming in the mail from Oregon where we went for my BFF's wedding. It's Fair Trade and Organic and All Natural, and Pakistani children are dying. Wonder what the Taliban is up to 'round those parts. Am I having a panic attack? I hope not, although the doctor IS in Wakefield this morning (we get doctors 2 days a week!). I sure can't wait for that Oregon coffee. Everyone drinks coffee up that way, and a lot of it! Do I need sugar? I do!

Three Million Pakistanis

When the flood becomes more intimate,

becomes a slow moving cancer

instead of immediate inundation,

a tree falling in a faraway forest

do we find it easier to ignore the thoracic burble?

Do we sleep in, greedy for relative peace

and the quiet of drier pillows? We had French toast

for our breakfast. The kids were tired

and we gave them hugs on their way

to the first day of school. The young one

had a sugary shirt, the old one no time to shower.

The wife and I made love last night. Enjoyed

the bodies moisture and mingled sweat. I remember

the blackberry scratches on my arm hurt a little.

I remember a mosquito’s desperate hum in my ear.

I poured a bucket of water onto dry, cracked ground

where grass had died in our back yard last

4^th of July. Watched the dirt sop it up too quickly

to become mud. I heard water and food

were coming slowly because the water came slowly,

remember how I heard since it wasn’t quick like Katrina

the suffering quickly became blasé. Easier to ignore.

This coffee is strong, and it is priming my bowels to move.

I’ll most likely read a magazine

before flushing that part of me down.