Prose Poem: Sanctioned.

 

I was looking at the pink marshmallow sky

on the beach when an ugly horde of 

ghost crabs scrabbled up to me.

Since this was a magical day in the tropics,

they began talking to me:

"Is it true you've been sanctioned?"

asked one.

"Will you fight this in court?"

asked another.

"How does this affect your standing

with the current administration?"

asked a third one, which I immediately

squashed with my foot.

I felt no remorse.

Later on, at the tiki bar, where I was enjoying

the pu pu platter,

a gecko on the ceiling above me

fell into my crab rangoon,

screaming "Will you be running

for office again?"

My waiter offered to have the gecko

grilled for me, but I took it home

in a doggie bag instead.

"Now" I said to the gecko,

which I had deposited in a bamboo

cage,

"My fine feathered friend, what is the

meaning of all this twaddle about me

being sanctioned?"

"Let me talk to my editor first"

demanded the gecko sullenly.

"Who do you work for?" I asked it.

"Who else? The Gecko Times!" it replied testily.

Just then an enormous cockchafer crawled up

on my table.

"I'm with the Kafka Tribune" it said to me,

as I raised a rolled newspaper to swat it.

"I have diplomatic immunity!"

"Not with me you don't!" I snarled,

and brought the paper down with a satisfying

whack.

I googled the mailing address of the 

Kafka Times and addressed an envelope

to them with the remains of their reporter

inside it.

But I couldn't find a single stamp in the house,

so I threw the envelope in the garbage.

During the ruckus the gecko had gnawed

through the bamboo bars and escaped.

It was on my ceiling, dropping tiny black

pellets on me and laughing insanely.

"Is that any way for a journalist to act?"

I cried in disgust.

"It's the only way, pal" replied the gecko, snapping up

 a moth fluttering nearby.

Then a much bigger gecko suddenly darted 

out from a rafter beam and swallowed my 

tormentor in one gulp.

"Thank you" I told the large gecko.

"Don't mention it" replied the reptile, "I was 

his editor . . . "

******************************

Here is some push back on this poem from a reader, who also happens to be a good friend of mine:

(Notice of forewarning: Everything I say in this message is meant sincerely and straightforwardly.)

Several moments in your prose poem bring a smile or a bit of a smile (usually as a response to what we call "wry humor" or to something incongruous or odd). But there was one moment when I laughed out loud. It was when I read these lines:

I googled the mailing address of the 

Kafka Times and addressed an envelope

to them with the remains of their reporter

inside it.

For whatever reason, I love those lines, especially the last couple. I think it has something to do with the fact that the reporter is (in my mind) both an insect that can be smashed and (at least in a shadowy way) a full-sized reporter, all of this combining into the incongruity of mailing the reporter's remains in an envelope to the Kafka Times. (The envelope retained its small size in my imagination.)

So it was disappointing to read that "you" (the speaker in the poem) proceeded to throw away the envelope. What a waste! I really wanted that envelope to make it to the Kafka Times! 

As a frequent reader of your work, that moment of throwing away the envelope reminded me of MANY similar moments in your work, at least in your prose poems--moments of incompletion or loss or failure. (Sometimes moments of quick and casual destruction or dismissal.) My sense is that these moments happen very often in your poems--honestly, to my mind, too often. It's partly that they've become something of a cliche. Besides that, they often seem too easy, not earned and not productive of any particular pleasure or insight. 

I think my unsatisfied response also comes from my imagining that these frequent moments reflect something in you--an inclination that I think you have (based on my small acquaintance with you) to believe that all hopes will eventually be dashed and all efforts will be frustrated. (When I say "inclination" I don't mean a committed belief--I just mean a kind of habitual tendency to see and feel in a certain way.) Besides wanting you (as the unique individual you are) to be more hopeful and happy, I think my response reflects my own desire--even my own habitual inclination and effort--to hope, to see happiness and success as an eventual outcome, even if it will take a long time, even if its full accomplishment is in the eternal sphere. 

You may feel I've put a lot of weight on little filaments in a whimsical creation. But I'm just saying how I honestly responded. And I do think that our moments of whimsy often reveal things of deep import.

But again, I LOVE those lines I quoted. Spontaneous laughter feels great.

My email response to his critique, thus:

Yes, I agree with you that the casual sadism, violence, and death in my prose poems is becoming a familiar trope. But I don't see it as a possible liability. The use of violence in my work stems directly from my slapstick clowning background. I learned early on as a clown the basic 'lazzi' or 'schtick' that slapstick venues rely on -- explosions, pratfalls, blows to the head, slaps and kicks in many variations, loss of pants, gooey items thrown into the face, defenestration (usually through paper hoops), and even murder most foul -- as in the famous clown routine 'Dead & Alive.'  (Here is a link to that clown skit if you'd like to see it yourself:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PkCpbw4EpEI  )

I am also a huge fan of classic American cartoons, and especially of cartoon director Tex Avery's work in that field. The grotesque violence and Grand Guignol merriment in those animated productions can still leave me breathless with admiration.

I see nothing problematic in viewing our current world as fallen and full of danger, and wishing to chronicle it whimsically in some of my poetry. To quote Jacob 7:26 -- "by saying that the time passed away with us, and also our ^blives passed away like as it were unto us a ^cdream, we being a ^dlonesome and a solemn people, ^ewanderers, cast out from Jerusalem, born in tribulation, in a wilderness, and hated of our brethren, which caused wars and contentions; wherefore, we did mourn out our days."

Perhaps the most salient point I can make about my bleak and violent conceits is, as you so kindly wrote, that in the midst of my dark visions will come a moment of risibility that is in such delightful contrast that it causes readers to laugh out loud.  As I gain further mastery over my craft, I hope to be able to do that much more often.