A Late Easter

Where do we go now, Mom?

The Bedouin and Tuareg are old hands
at alleviating clutter.
Pull four corners to the center of the old kit bag,
smile and move on.
Not so easy in Askewville, North Carolina.
Staying put in mobile homes is not
the optimal survival strategy, clucks the expert.
They should have known better.
When every piece of pocket detritus
is a sign of the True Cross,
How do I lay my burden down?

The liars call our pocket gadgets the new nomadic gifts,
but where is the nomad?
We drown far easier along the Via Dolorosa,
our Thingmaker churning out Creepy Crawlers
faster than a semiconductor plant on three-shift schedule.

One
You will die when your things take ownership of you.

Two
Here is your talisman your rag your toy your bone your cross.

Three
Why, look at Mr. North Carolina!
He’s fallen and he can’t get up.
Too many toys in too many pockets.
She’s no fun she fell right over.

Four
Where do we go now, mom?
Mama can’t drive with her cataracts.
You just leave her be.

Five
Let the Libyan carry the Creepy Crawlers
Can you lay your burden down?
Can you give him the baubles the Romans call
SAMs, cluster bomblets?
Is this weightless?
Is this giving it to God?

Six
Will you wake from your dream,
with a wolf at the door,
reaching out for Veronica?
(She’s not allowed to take your toys away,
but o that forehead glistens.)

Seven
Debt burden, underwater mortgage, skinned knee,
foreclosure, chapter 11, ow

Eight
Did you know the daughters of sorrow were
gathered at the Wailing Wall?

Nine
Steppe warriors are long gone now,
Tuareg sell their kids to chocolate merchants
(not allowed to nibble the ears).
Can’t sell your Skechers or Jimmy Chus to any
cut-rate T.E. Lawrence.
Nothing left to d0 but fall fall fall let’s fall.

Ten
And if each tornado-alley chorus of survivors hollers
“Death to fashionistas! Give us Barabbas!”
You know this movie score.
You become naked.

Eleven
Could not lay those burdens down.
Each Creepy Crawler
Each installment plan shiny object
becomes a nail for palm or ankle.

Twelve
Father, into your hands
I commend my Mastercard, Toys R Us
Clutter of the Bedouin
Where do we go now, mom?

Thirteen
The body that never went nomadic,
the shell encased in burdens,
may now be anointed.

Fourteen
Locked in a shuddering Earth,
no stones rolled away,
but sure smells pretty.

Easter came late to a resonant planet.
The weightless chased across a Mobius-strip Sahel,
The weighted in tombs of laid-down burdens.
Where do we go now, mom?

Loring Wirbel
April 19, 2011

"And My Heart, Isabella.."

It's not like I usually experience any particular shivers in the early afternoon hours of Good Friday, though in previous years I'd try to participate in the Way of the Cross walk for justice. It's not like I care about Pope Benedict's scandals or the stages of Catholic guilt, particularly being a mediocre Protestant for whom guilt is worth little more than a punchline or two. But the sky clouded over at 1 p.m. April 2, and I could feel every effort at trying to slice through the grief experienced by proxy when I heard about Matthew Perry dealing with his Alzheimer's mother in Michigan. Grief is the dragon that unconditional joy is called upon to slay, and this shit's hard.

This was the kind of week that required One Great Big Conspiracy to be resurrected from the dead, to slay Guardians of the Free Republics while keeping one eye out for the Hutaree cult. This was the kind of week that required a rage against the iPad and all the fetishism it implied. This was the kind of week when I sat quietly listening to Bill Callahan sing mournful songs about "no love without obstacle." Obstacles are speedbumps or brick walls to route around or dragons to slay or the schism that makes the difference, and they are blessed. The straight line is the cheat, the obstacle is the path to love.

So stand by for a few hours of grief, no doubt to be followed by a weekend of sunshine and unconditional joy. Isabella, we are rising.