Christmas, and the word became flesh
on our scribbled, Scrabble board,
half-empty bottle of wine
and a record strumming chords so calm
in lieu of breeze or fire.
"Calvinist" to your "random"
with "stop" and "go" branching out,
feebly, with little imagination
or points.
And you discuss
the interconnectedness
of all things,
how life is tangible --
dependent on dice and chance,
how the meeting of hearts
is coldly decided
by the lefts and rights,
the ins and outs,
of daily mundane doings.
Look, a physicist is born
because a young cashier has smiled
at a complete and foreign stranger;
had he foregone the pack of gum
you say, he'd have married
another woman; she'd bear a son
who'd serve hard time,
20 years, no parole, no remorse.
Watch the atoms collide at will
and the faces disappear,
observe the cells dividing,
for they too will reach dry land.
When Reverend Tucker
quotes the scriptures,
he says "I ain't no ape."
Show him how his sins hold fast,
how he fails the Lord of mercy,
how he strains at gnats -- eats camels,
ignores the tailbone of his ass.
If I leave you, my love,
at 10:03, I'll make it home in peace,
write a tender song for you,
how your scarlet locks
are a stream, flowing to and fro
in dreams. You'll be enchanted,
consider my proposal,
say yes for all it's worth.
But please, don't let me tarry,
say a word or phrase ill-thought.
For if I'm gone at 10:04,
I'll catch a damned red light,
my car sideswiped by drunkards,
my chest pinned to the wheel,
legs crushed, spirit floating somewhere
to a place of God's own choosing.
And it is there, as Dante warned,
amid the howls and shrieks of loss,
I'll die a second cosmic time from a flash
of what would and should have been;
your breath pulsing on in bliss,
the ignorance of the not-yet-dead.
Like Darwin Among the Gods
Andreas Gripp
"Before You Die," it seems,
has been springing up in bookstores
all over the place:
"1001 Movies to See Before You Die" --
double-faced in Performing Arts.
"1001 Places to See Before You Die" --
yields a trepid trudge to Travel.
And every genre,
it seems, has its own
Arabian Nights-inspired thing to do
before the hooded hangman calls:
"1001 Foods to Eat Before You Die"
"1001 Albums to Hear Before You Die"
"1001 Books to Read Before You Die"
It's worth noting
that with all this talk of death,
the titles continue to fly
and booksellers can scarcely keep up.
Maybe that's due to the fact
that you're never, ever told
exactly how you'll die,
for it's unlikely you'll see
"1001 Dances to Learn
Before You Develop Cancer"
or "1001 Liqueurs to Drink
Before You Get Hit By A Train"
or "1001 Puzzles to Solve
Before You Get Shot in the Head"
Perhaps we prefer that Death
keep its own swell of incense,
its own black curtain to draw,
its own cryptic crossword,
one not deciphered
by reader or writer alike.
But why that extra one after one thousand?
That little bonus, as a P.S. or encore --
to make amends for the
penultimate trip or film?
Where you're much too anxious
about your impending expiry
to enjoy that stroll in Oahu ...
too perturbed about your nearing demise
to laugh through A Day at the Races ...
and only Banks' allusion
to The Sweet Hereafter
will make that final book
even tolerable.
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