Interlude

Interlude

1.
False spring is illusionary
yet it remains spring-like
and the damned sprouts, blossoms,
and pesky hatches of insects
don’t really know the difference,
or care, rising fearless from
the soil, from eggs, from branches,
all the while Mother Nature
gets her jollies
[as a man I have often pondered on why
so many things in this world are referred to
as “she”— you know like boats, mountains,
storms, cars, whims, urges, trucks, machines,
and even trains. Maybe it has something
to do with how it’s been a man’s
world for countless eons, and still is
in too many backward societies,
fraternal organizations,
and Catholic/Islamic countries
where women are still chattel,
furniture, and sex toys; even
the dullest of men should notice
that the Day of the Fem is upon us,
big time, even in combat,
the ER, the courtroom, the bedroom
and the internet chat-rooms,
but if God is a large black woman
and it is actually true
that Jesus was a very dark Jew
with coarse nappy hair and the
brownest eyes possible,
maybe the Romans had it right,
or was it the Greeks, no, the Aztecs,
and it has always been necessary
to split up the sexes of our gods,
and how long will it be
now that we have a black President,
before we get a female Pope, or Popette;
yeah, I could dig it, for I would have
voted for Hilary Clinton if Barack had not
kicked her butt in the primaries—
but then again
“Father Nature”
conjures up fairy dust
and garlands of begonias
twisted into prissy crowns
and baby’s breath for a bow tie,
and an image of a sequined Dame
Elton “Alice” John,
so let’s stick with the
Earth Mother iconostasis,
with mountains for breasts
and ivy necklaces
and slender long fingers holding
a sack of seeds tenderly]
as She swirls a mini-ice age
onto the Florida peninsula
and gives the far reaches of the Northwest
a winter pass— probably
by all rights,
by universal law, if I weren’t such
a surly curmudgeon,
I would feel an ersatz
twinge of guilt thinking about
Haiti and Chile
and those dusty middle-eastern
opium-smeared villages where
Bush’s New Millennium Crusades still rage
through those brass-rimmed
made-in-America bullets and bombs
that forge our actual foreign policy,
slay for petroleum,
and mow down turbaned Infidels
like fields of winter wheat
with a behemoth John Deere combine—
but I am, and I don’t, because for
chrissake even I have enough sense
to realize that weather is fickle,
temporal, tentative, unfaithful as a harlot,
just a lusty, or bothersome,
or halcyon, or treacherous
interlude in each of my days.

2.
False spring is illusionary yet it remains spring-like
and the damned sprouts, blossoms, and pesky hatches
of insects don’t really know the difference, or care, rising
fearless from the soil, from eggs, from branches, all the
while Mother Nature gets her jollies [as a man I have often
pondered on why so many things in this world are referred
to as “she”—you know like boats, mountains, storms, cars,
whims, urges, trucks, machines, and even trains. Maybe it
has something to do with how it’s been a man’s world for
countless eons, and still is in too many backward societies,
fraternal organizations, and Catholic/Islamic countries
where women are still chattel, furniture, and sex toys;
even the dullest of men should notice that the Day of the
Fem is upon us, big time, even in combat, the ER, the
courtroom, the bedroom and the internet chat-rooms,
but if God is a large black woman and it is actually true
that Jesus was a very dark Jew with coarse nappy hair
and the brownest eyes possible, maybe the Romans had
it right, or was it the Greeks, no, the Aztecs, and it has
always been necessary to split up the sexes of our gods,
and how long will it be now that we have a black President,
before we get a female Pope, or Popette; yeah, I could dig it,
for I would have voted for Hilary Clinton if Barack had not
kicked her butt in the primaries—but then again
“Father Nature” conjures up fairy dust and garlands of
begonias twisted into prissy crowns and baby’s breath for
a bow tie, and an image of a sequined Dame Elton “Alice”
John, so let’s stick with the Earth Mother iconostasis,
with mountains for breasts and ivy necklaces and
slender long fingers holding a sack of seeds tenderly]
as She swirls a mini-ice age onto the Florida peninsula
and gives the far reaches of the Northwest a winter pass—
probably by all rights, by universal law, if I weren’t such
a surly curmudgeon, I would feel an ersatz twinge of guilt
thinking about Haiti and Chile and those dusty middle-
eastern opium-smeared villages where Bush’s New
Millennium Crusades still rage through those brass-
rimmed made-in-America bullets and bombs that
forge our actual foreign policy, slay for petroleum,
and mow down turbaned Infidels like fields of winter
wheat with a behemoth John Deere combine—but I am,
and I don’t, because for chrissake even I have enough
sense to realize that weather is fickle, temporal,
tentative, unfaithful as a harlot, just a lusty, or
bothersome,or halcyon, or treacherous interlude
in each of my days.

3.
False
spring is
illusionary yet it

remains
spring-like
and the damned sprouts,

blossoms,
and pesky
hatches of insects

don’t
really know
the difference, or

care,
rising fearless
from the soil,

from
eggs, from
branches, all the

while
Mother Nature
gets her jollies

[as
a man
I have often

pondered
on why
so many things

in
this world
are referred to

as
“she”—you
know like boats,

mountains,
storms, cars,
whims, urges, trucks,

machines,
and even
trains. Maybe it

has
something to
do with how

it’s
been a
man’s world for

countless
eons, and
still is in

too
many backward
societies, fraternal organizations,

and
Catholic/Islamic
countries where women

are
still chattel,
furniture, and sex

toys;
even the
dullest of men

should
notice that
the Day of

the
Fem is
upon us, big

time,
even in
combat, the ER,

the
courtroom, the
bedroom and the

internet
chat-rooms,
but if God

is
a large
black woman and

it
is actually
true that Jesus

was
a very
dark Jew with

coarse
nappy hair
and the brownest

eyes
possible, maybe
the Romans had

it
right, or
was it the

Greeks,
no, the
Aztecs, and it

has
always been
necessary to split

up
the sexes
of our gods,

and
how long
will it be

now
that we
have a black President,

before
we get
a female Pope,

or
Popette; yeah,
I could dig

it,
for I
would have voted

for
Hilary Clinton
if Barack had

not
kicked her
butt in the

primaries—
but then
again “Father Nature”

conjures
up fairy
dust and garlands

of
begonias twisted
into prissy crowns

and
baby’s breath
for a bow

tie,
and an
image of a

sequined
Dame Elton
“Alice” John, so

let’s
stick with
the Earth Mother

iconostasis,
with mountains
for breasts and

ivy
necklaces and
slender long fingers

holding
a sack
of seeds tenderly]

as
She swirls
a mini-ice

age
onto the
Florida peninsula and

gives
the far
reaches of the

Northwest
a winter
pass—probably by

all
rights, by
universal law, if

I
weren’t such
a surly curmudgeon,

I
would feel
an ersatz twinge

of
guilt thinking
about Haiti and

Chile
and those
dusty middle-eastern

opium-
smeared villages
where Bush’s New

Millennium
Crusades still
rage through those

brass-
rimmed made-
in-America bullets

and
bombs that
forge our actual

foreign
policy, slay
for petroleum, and

mow
down turbaned
Infidels like fields

of
winter wheat
with a behemoth

John
Deere combine—
but I am,

and
I don’t,
because for chrissake

even
I have
enough sense to

realize
that weather
is fickle, temporal,

tentative,
unfaithful as
a harlot, just

a
lusty, or
bothersome,or halcyon,

or
treacherous interlude
in each of

my days.

Glenn Buttkus March 2010