Guatentropy

Not all poetry is "pretty"

We even have words for it.

“Guatexplain.” “Guatexcuse.” “Guatentropy.”

You, telling me how things are.

You, assuming I am not paying

enough attention. Because I could

not possibly ever understand on

my own. Without you, a man,

describing it for me. Let me tell you,

the minute I hear, “you really need to…”

 

I tune you out. I do not need

your unsolicited “advice,” nor your

macho-state-sponsored emotional

terrorism defining for me what I

can clearly discern with my own

eyes and heart. Nobody who uses

the phrase, “it’s just how things are

here, and you have to get used

to that,” has ever stood with any

courage under the threat of losing

a little sense of personal safety.

 

Among other things, I study the

nature of s**t. Fascinating topic.

It can contaminate a river or be

fermented to grow a rose. It all depends

on how often the diapers get changed

and what happens to the contents

afterwards. What I see is a whole lot

of men who do not want to get their

hands dirty, leaving their women to

do the unpleasant work of the world.

 

Then criticizing them for having

dirt under their fingernails

sometimes. Unless you are the one changing

the diapers of your society, you

have no platform from which to

point a finger. What will grow when

this shitstorm clears? A viral infection,

resistant to all ideas that do not fit

in a confessional booth on Sunday?

 

Or a field of sunflowers, standing

with young backs against the shadows

of yesterday, always with their face

in the sun of tomorrow’s promise? I

may have the wrong color skin, but even

form here, I can tell you, which

is needed more. When something

smells as bad as a putrid wound,

you stop making excuses for it, and you

get to work. You change the dressing

and adjust the culture.

 

Author's Note

NOT dedicated in any way to the wonderful men in my life who are constant companions and trusted confidantes and advisers.

Picture is my own, if I can get it to load :-/

Reviews

[Chris]

...or perhaps bury the living
as the dead procrastinate their prescience
about the grand societal awareness
as only the great "unwashed" reveres.

just a thought...

Ever been in a confessional when a "priest" decides to go pontifical on you with a long direction of "things" AND physical actions you WILL have to actually do/perform/accomplish BEFORE your wayward "sins" will be absolved (if ever) all for the "good" of the ecumenical whimsy - of course... and hear the low chuckling as you leave the booth...

[Marie Anzalone]

Belle and Sebastian, the British songwriting group, have a song about just that. Some of my favorite song lyrics ever.
"The priest in the booth had a photographic memory
For all he had heard
He took all of my sins and he wrote a pocket novel called
'The State I Am In'
So I gave myself to God
There was a pregnant pause before he said ok"

Thanks for the review. It has been difficult for me to get on here and connect, but I am trying to start doing better. Blessings on your day, my friend.

PS there is a brilliant segment in "Angela's Ashes" that deals with the same topic. Love it.