On the Brink of the Last Squawk

Spring has brought me the frightening laugh of the idiot. Yes, that’s Rimbaud, from “A Season in Hell.”

But that idiot laugh has left Paris. It’s left Wales. It’s made a nest in Maine.

And what is this laugh that creeps from grass stem to grass stem? Is it afraid of the sun?

Sometimes I can even hear it in the mad taps of the first moth at night, incessantly striving to get into my home. But for what? What does this nighttime insect hope to find? Will it walk across my scalp the same way Neil Armstrong walked across the moon?

My adult life seems more and more a struggle for financial success. Why is that? If I lick the moth’s dust, will I hear moonbeams, or more frantic wings?

Look! There it is. Laughter in the golden forsythia. Is nothing sacred anymore? No. Not since humanity invented a god who created Adam, who in his crude and pathetic way fashioned woman from his rib. What the fuck is all that about? Like god or man knows anything about woman.

I live with three women (well, one is a girl of 6, the other is 15 months), but, if I was to pull a metaphor to explain their creation, I’d say my three women cupped the cosmos in their hands and sifted stars.

There it is again, that lonely and pitiful laughter, like a dirge on the wind, snapping dead stalks, caressing feathery leaves, and nattering some conservative, emasculated flatulence. But no, it’s not some hot wind out from the wilderness, it’s the hot air of men, yapping like hyenas, bouncing like geldings — ignorant of their loss — that a woman’s mind, a woman’s body, every aspect of a woman is up for auction to the highest political bidder in the land.

Sold! For a birth-control pill and a lovely home-made muffin!

There’s that laughter again. Its dry like dirt. And it’s mewling something about women must be made of high-fructose corn syrup and all things domestically nice and never get abortions because children are, well, all those wonderful impressionable minds that religion can pickle in its great big vat of lies.

God, be still, you wicked, wicked laughter, straight out of banality.

Wait, what the hell is that sound now? Sounds like the sweet rill of jester bells. It’s saying, listen up all you high courts of the land, if you want to implement real laws, how about you scrap the white, old-man gene from politics. Let’s fill the Senates and the Houses with 20 year olds — who at least know how to party and have a good time — and not philistines in their dotage and hooked on the drug of power but who don’t wish to change or do anything. With age does not come wisdom to politicians, just blinkers and piss pots under the bed. Or, let’s pass a bill to make sure every man sheaths his John Thomas before intercourse (why must it be left to the ladies to take the pill?). And to ensure this high decree, roving bands of lobbyists will break into your home and sheath you themselves if you fail to cooperate.

Listen, now it’s coming through the cracks in the wall. What, there are cracks in this wonderful old house called civilization? Damn, I thought those were veins of gold, symbols of the good life, reflections of purity, strength, our gains, our growth, our economic powerhouse.

Fool’s gold, caws the crow with the silver eye on the roofless house.

What, now you’re telling me the house has no roof?

Should I tell you there is no foundation, too, hisses the snake, sleepy still from winter’s hibernation, but free of his discarded skins.

Even the daffodils are laughing, bobbing back and forth their yellow trumpets. What’s that they say?

April is cruel because man is cruel, because he can’t stand to love.

God, even if I trample the flowers in all the gardens, I still can’t escape that foolish laughter. So is it me, or does everyone hear it?

Spring. What makes the lamb prance and jump and all I hear is snickering, like maggots in meaningless roadkill.

I must be an idiot to hear such things.

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