Three Little Pigs

Three Little Pigs

The magic of walls

is in dividing

the outside from the inside,

nature from man-made,

us from them.

Which of us,

who pines for the noble savage

and prays to the rural romantics

of an outdoor life,

would give up so easily

our world full of walls?

Which of us could keep

our hearts content,

our souls from torment,

if we were without structures

to keep the world at bay?

Many are the callers

who ring our bells

and knock our doors

hoping to sell

a little plastic miracle,

a suckle for our fears.

But which of us welcome

those smiling faces

clutching Watchtower

or a bag of dirt

to suck from our floors?

Which of us aren’t glad

to keep the wolf

from the door?

Three pig brothers

all became architects

and lived as differently

as those can

who once snatched teats

from each other’s mouths.

They built their own homes

in different styles

as showcases to their talent,

these pigs extraodinaire.

The youngest piggy built

his house out of straw.

A Tahitian fantasy,

a Caribbean retreat.

Pineapple stanchions,

and a banana leaf roof.

But a wolf came by

with a taste for pork

and asked to be let in

to this puerco-tamale

corn husk of a house.

“No!” said the suckling,

squealing in fear

in a terrycloth bathrobe

behind a wicker-wove chair.

So the wolf huffed

and he puffed

and he blew the house in,

a hurricane gust,

a tornado sneeze.

Little pig ran away

to his brother’s abode

and begged for protection

from the big, bad, wolf.

The second pig lived

in a country cabin

of hardwood oak logs.

Rough hewn and rustic

with hand-made quilts.

But the wolf came back

and asked to be let in

to this bacon and shortrib

hickory smokehouse.

The pigs squealed “NO!”

and quivered behind

the Mission table

and Navaho throw.

So the wolf huffed

and he puffed

and he blew the house in.

A forest of splinters,

a heavy damage zone.

The pigs ran away

to their older brother’s,

who lived in a suburb

and gave at the office.

He lived in a ranch home,

non-descript;

aluminum shutters

and red brick.

The wolf arrived

and demanded entrance

to the sausage and pepperoni

pizza-oven of a home.

The oldest pig asked,

Did the wolf have a warrant?

A subpoena to notice?

Did he have an appointment,

or a gasmeter man’s badge?

Did he see the sign

‘No Solicitations’

right under the notice

of the neighborhood watch?

The wolf huffed,

and he puffed,

and he blew his wad

on reinforced shingles

and aluminum siding,

on weather stripped windows

and an Astroturf lawn.

Mediocrity

at its most tenacious.

So the wolf left for Arizona

to be in the sun,

and hunt with coyote,

and try his lungs

against adobe.

The younger pigs lived,

but in discomfort

with those nightmare

brown curtains,

and plastic wrapped sofas.

Those odd-shaped air fresheners

and beige painted walls.

But all three would grow

as quiet as prosciutto,

as still as a clove-spotted

holiday ham,

when the postman came,

or the newsboy stopped,

or that treacherous doorbell

rang.

For who can tell

when that next stranger approaches

if it’s a gift from a relative

long since forgotten,

if it’s cash from the lottery,

or a nice thing to buy.

Or if it’s the darkness

that waits to engulf us,

the jaws of the predator

with a taste for our lives.

- From Eating the Child Within,

Eating the Child Within Kindle Version

Order printed edition or Download PDF:

Jason Messinger Bookstore

Hopeless

Hopeless
 
If you still have hanging
a Christmas stocking
on the first day of Spring,
you need to know;
Santa 
isn't 
coming.

The Heavy Hands

Once a man loved his family so much 
he let his hand fall heavy on their hearts, 
close fast on their minds, 
swing over their dreams. 
His hands loomed like clouds, 
floating over them all. 
His children looked for his hands 
around every corner, 
on every stranger’s wrist. 
As they grew, their father’s hands grew larger, 
his love wrapped tight around their breath. 
They recognized his hands on others, 
others who they loved and wed. 
But they left their own prints 
on their own children, 
keeping their father’s heavy hands 
for themselves. 

From The Insect Diviner
The Insect Diviner in PRINT 
The Insect Diviner as PDF Download 
The Insect Diviner on KINDLE
 

America

Seventy old men 

can always find something to agree on,

as long as somebody 

gets screwed.

Repunzal

Urge to eat a bitter herb - 
swap your child with a word.
Tower turned to prison lair;
virgin girl, ladder of hair.


Deceptions of a crafty prince,
scissors of a spiteful witch.
Girl roams lost, boy falls blind.
Song unites, tears revive.


Head goes bald to gain the world?
Woman's fate an awful weight.
Desire can become deceit.
Lather, rinse, then repeat.

A Concerned Consumer of the United States of America

A Concerned Consumer of the United States of America 

I always buy soaps
with large lettering on the labels.
Monosyllables with action, or force.
Dial. Pert. Tide.
Cleansing energy of increasing degrees.
And polyphonic Neutragena,
royal queen of the radiant clean.
I prefer transparent amber liquids
to viscous milk-white.
I prefer wet soaps to hard,
in shower, sink, hamper.
I like almond smells and hot water,
hate florals and blasts of cold.
I like to buy what’s cheapest,
but never purchase generic.
I always use soap liberally,
but I’ll water it down
to squeeze the last wash
if I forget to buy new.

I always buy foods that can be shelved
with painted pastoral landscapes
on the box or jar.
Sheaves of wheat and bursting vegetables,
and large-busted woman
with black hair and wide smiles.
In some peasant sophistry,
a nostalgic country Eden
from which all good things flow.
Mummified starches transformed
into moist earthy abundance.
I like imports shipped from far away,
and labels printed directly on cans,
with thin lettering and serif capitals
and primary colors contrasted with white.
I want to buy what’s most expensive
because I think its best.

I always buy condiments.
Fruit flavored mustards and exotic oils.
Chutneys and pickles and anything pureed.
I buy the one I haven’t had
over the one I’ve known.
I like tiny fish and pungent sauce
and black liquids, or any kind of jelly.
I like labels to carry
as much writing as possible,
in several languages.
I once divided an estate
of bottled hot sauces,
taking my half with calculation,
next time marrying
a virgin to picante.
I pack condiments
in my fridge door,
with more on every shelf.
I periodically clean out the lids,
but not as often as I should.

I always buy food
that needs a lot of preparation
with as little packaging as possible.
I always buy organic eggs and
want to buy free-range chickens.
I avoid ground meats
except in sausage casings.
I’ll spend an hour picking out
the smallest brussel sprout.
I’ll go out of my way
for unusual mushrooms,
and shove a stranger
for a really ripe tomato.
I almost never buy seafood
because I can’t afford it.
If I could afford it,
I’d eat only fat crabs
from professional cooks.

I buy disposable lighters in black,
paper towels in plain white.
I buy garbage bags with handles
and self-adhesive stamps.
I filter all my drinking water.
I never skimp on toilet paper.
I’d recycle more if it was simpler.
I never clip coupons anymore.
According to surveys,
I share 3.82 to 37.62 percent
of market share with my peers.
I worry when my products
are discontinued.
I feel unique.

The Sirens of Crate

The Sirens of Crate

Joey told me about bigger things,
about how the Gods played
with men's lives. Like playing army
'cept we're real. Not toys.

How the things we see aren't all
we know about.
How there are other things pushing
our backs all around.
Magic stuff, and super natural.

Jupiter and Mercury and heroes,
which were men, but stronger and braver
and they all die in the end.
Except the Gods, who just keep bickering.
Making guys fight and stuff. Like army.

One guy, Her-curlys, he was taking a boat
out with some friends. They fought big monsters
and sirens of crate. Really noisy sirens
that made you want to die or something.

I can't remember where the crates
came in, but listening to Joey
was better then playing
and stuff.
Better then army.

Ghosts

Ghosts 

Ghosts are detected only

by the misdirection

of their deeds;

the vase falling

in an empty room,

the creak in the attic floor,

the silence where speech

used to be.


There is a ghost that lives

on the tip of my tongue,

drawing words from my throat

like a fisherman.

Some explode, too delicate

for the change in pressure.

Others get crushed

into dust and deceit.


Who decided loneliness

is such a coveted point of view?

How can I say I’m sorry

when you can’t even see

that I’m gone?

 

From 'Story Telling' - Available on Kindle

Binta Jua

Binti Jua

A gorilla saved a child                                               

that tumbled down to her, eighteen feet.                       

Saved him from the other apes

who defend their stretch of dirt.                                   

Carried him, as if her own,

clutched to her dark chest.           

The child recovered

and the news proclaimed:            

animals are angels in disguise.

As a baby, the gorilla

came to the zoo alone,

so the keepers had to teach her,                                    

with dolls and toys, to nurture.

They claim these lessons

saved the boy;                        

a gift from man to beast to man.

                                   

But Binti looked beyond

the smell of not-doll flesh.

The noise of not-ape mouth.

Found something to cherish

in the child's hairless skin.

Now they crowd outside her cage,

but does she notice him there?

And does he wave

to his brown-eyed savior?                                               

Or is he held back

in a kind of shame?

                       

And when he dreams

of this strange journey

does he recall

his brief ape-mother?                                               

Her cunning hands around his back,

her husky breath upon his brow?

The smell of fur and fruit and shit?

Or is there only the fall,                                               

the long, long fall

into the pit?           

The Secret Herb

A woman told her daughter, "Go out, and gather the secret herb."
"What is it?" the daughter asked, "I have never seen the secret herb."

"You must find it yourself," the mother said. "That is the way". Then the mother told her what to look for, and what to smell for, and what to taste for, but little on what to avoid.

The daughter left and searched for the secret herb. She met others on her way, who each told her they had the secret herb, and gladly offered theirs. Each time the girl decided, no, this isn’t what I need. Later the girl turned a corner, and walked over a rise, and discovered what she sought.

"I have found the secret herb," she told her mother, upon her return. 

"How did you gather it?" the mother asked. "Did you gather it under the full moon’s glow, with your hands pushed deep into the earth?"

"No," said the girl.  

"Oh," said the mother, "then it is no good." 

So they told stories instead, and ate and drank and slept under the same roof. The girl again left to search for the secret herb, searching far and low. She met new friends and old, each saying they had it. That isn’t what I need, she always decided. At last she found the herb again and gathered it as she should.
 
"Here is the secret herb," she told her mother.
 
"Was it cleaned the day it was picked? And dried upon the morn, over the smoke of a slow smolder?"

"No," said the girl. 
 
"Oh," said the mother, "Then it is spoiled." 
So instead they told stories and ate and drank and laughed and cried and slept under the same roof.

Some time passed before the daughter found the herb again, in a place she did not expect. She gathered it, and cleaned it, dried it in the smoke.

"Come mother," the daughter said, "this is the secret herb."  

"Did you blend it into honey? And seal the bottle with wax?"  

"No," said the daughter.  

"Ah," said the mother, "then it is not ready." So they ate and talked and reminisced.

"Oh mother," sighed the daughter, "when will I have the secret herb?"

"Never, I hope, my darling daughter."