BUSINESS AS USUAL

      The wages of sin is death. —Romans 6:23

And on that cheerful note, we may consider
How deep our errant ways have driven us;
Or we may merely dwell upon how bitter
We are for having lost the impetus

That would have consummated our desires.
Far be it from us to have tested waters
Before we waded in, or kicked the tires
That rolled us to the mindless autumn slaughters

Where eyes are dry but rivers run with blood.
It’s a bad day when wolves can’t compensate
For their commitment to the charnel flood
By praising morsels they regurgitate.

To charges that we’re guided by our lust,
With perfect honesty we must plead guilty,
But after all, we’re only made of dust,
And dust a river bears will make it silty.

Excuses cannot cleanse our dirty hands,
Nor wash away our record of abuses,
But we have never wished for promised lands
That undermine desire and sap our juices.

TEASER

The plangent chords that filled the evening air
Were struck from vintage Sitka spruce guitars.
I was so bold, and you so young and fair,
When we lay down beneath the rising stars.

You called me dearest, I called you my love,
And that is how the evening should have gone,
But somehow you had never been above
Dissimulation staged upon a lawn.

My balls were blue, and so—My God!—was I;
I never thought that you would let me down
So hard, and I began to curse the sky
That led to my instatement as a clown.

What happened after that was almost worse:
You said you’d like to see me one more time
(To coax another dinner from my purse
And thus complete the classic paradigm).

But how could I say No, full knowing that
I might not ever get another chance?
I envied every chair on which you sat
And wished to be your favorite pair of pants.

So use me and abuse me—I don’t care—
But don’t pretend you ever gave a damn.
Though mortified down to my underwear,
For what you made me feel, I thank you, Ma’am.

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ORTHODONTIA

My teeth are spaced just right for crying Holy
Unto the Word. They chatter in the wind
When barren verbiage for which I’m solely
Responsible flows through, when I have sinned

The common sin of indolent omission;
And if, by some unusual response
To who-knows-what, a rather fine fruition
Occurs—as though received from fonts

Of wisdom—then they grit and won’t let go.
No matter what I do, I’m in a bind
I can’t get out of, thrall to lyric mo-
Ments, good and bad, with downsides bound to find

Me: Every time I try to tell the truth
I risk pneumonia… or a broken tooth.

SMELTING POT

Let shivers travel up his open sleeve
If all the cuff links have been turned to plows,
And let him quickly dress and take his leave
When futures past look better than the nows.

Like anyone, to get a bite to eat
He’d wait in line for hours, out in the cold;
To gain some kitchen space, he’d bear the heat
Without complaint and do what he was told.

It’s not about the clothes. It’s not about
The meals. It’s all about the ray of hope
He knows is possible to do without.
It’s all about ability to cope.

The mill of history grinds very slow
And tends to reinforce the status quo.

BLACK MOLD

A shiny key is hanging from a joist
Down in my basement where the air is cool,
The floor is gritty, and the walls are moist.
Though on occasion I’ve been called a fool,

This doesn’t mean that I have led a life
Devoid of options I can choose to nurse.
It’s said that every man should find a wife
Whose native virtues will allay the curse

Of living in a sub-par status quo,
And sometimes what’s important in the present
Is all a footloose wastrel wants to know
When prospects for the future look unpleasant.

The prime allure of duplicate brass keys
Is how they glitter dangling from a nail:
I’ll break and enter anytime I please
With little fear of being sent to jail,

And never mind the scorn of mutual friends.
You trusted me inside your mortgaged house
Without a thought I’d need to make amends
For making love to your unfaithful spouse.

You do not love her, and she knows it well,
So was I wrong to spend my wanton seed
Inside the ossuary where you dwell
As hardened enemies, to meet her need

For someone who would listen to her cries
And try to make things right (—as if that were
Remotely possible)? I sense your lies
Each time I storm the gate and enter her,

Which doesn’t make me feel the least bit better
For having breached your trust. I am in awe
Of saints who follow statutes to the letter,
But I obey the spirit of the law.

SUBSCRIBED

Mr. Gyle had ordered a subscription for
his partner, Mr. Morris, as a joke.
The magazine itself had not arrived, but
they amused themselves by making comments
on the calendar delivered to their door
that day—the signing bonus. Morris spoke
of photos seen in boyhood when, not sure what
he was meant to feel, he mustered pretense,

mostly hoping to convince his pals that he
was one of them; the funny part of it
was that those glossy naked female torsos
seemed to him the image of his mother,
but to them, forbidden islands on a sea
of adolescent lust. The men then split
a bottle from the cellar, letting doors close
on the closets of their past …. Another

sip or two at most before their dinner guests
arrived: close friends they valued, Annabel
and Claire, who often came with men appended,
sometimes not. So Gyle stood up and, handing
off the sheaf of airbrushed photographs, all jests
aside suggested that it might be well
to hide it—not because they’d be offended,
but to circumvent misunderstanding.

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FRIENDSHIP

The company you keep is all
       too frequently
The rub of having dropped the ball—
       propinquity

Has always been the dealer’s choice,
       and why you chose
To underplay your natural voice,
       nobody knows.

So going forward, choose your friends
       as though your life
Depended on it. Bitter ends
       cut like a knife.

SUBTEXT

The pages of your life, once you are dead,
Are placed into the custody of others
Who’ve known and loved you. This is what I said
To her, reminding her as well that mothers

Are living icons children can’t forget.
She smiled and nodded, so I took my wife
To bed, turned off the light, and read her yet
Another chapter from the Book of Life.

PRIVATE PROPERTY

Opening a mind is a life-long project,
daunting in both theory and execution.
Finding willing subjects is always problem-
      atical—always.

Getting to the bottom of this is something
scholars may attempt in the distant future,
but for now it looms as a sleep-disrupting
      thorny conundrum.

Why do natives brandish their spears when pilgrims
land upon their shore in a boat that’s leaking?
Is it just because they adhere to habits
      older than commerce?

Often there’s a bounty on new arrivals
dressed in garments longtime inhabitants dis-
dain to wear, but what can a peaceful human
      do to prevent this?

Ah, it’s all about the civility to
furnish strangers rights that a vested settler
takes for granted—certain that annexation’s
       not their intention.

THE RIGORS, WILES AND
                     PITFALLS OF ACADEMIA

No philosopher was ever made
who doubted he could easily attract
a dozen followers who would invest
their lives in earnest efforts to persuade
a hundred more—with diligence and tact—
that his insightful thoughts will put to rest

some troublesome conundrums for the rest
of time. But every one is soon dismayed
by all the jealous colleagues who attacked
them for the subtle errors in the tract
that should have garnered fame for having swayed
opinions far and wide. Though some wear vest-

ments, theologians typically are vest-
ed tenured faculty who’ve not caressed
a silver cross, but dress in stylish suede
and slick their hair with secular pomade
as if their highest aim were to attract
the whore of Babylon. Their souls intact,

their posted notes to students firmly tacked,
they search each pocket of a leather vest
for messages they hope they can retract
before the content leads to their arrest:
one must be careful, lest a jilted maid
take umbrage at endeavors to dissuade

her from resuming contact. Persons swayed
by chains of logic that are not intact
are rare as marriages in heaven made,
which causes prudent scholars to divest
their interest in affairs that bring unrest
to all involved. Professors must distract

themselves with books and let no stains detract
from their CVs. And yet, young dancers swayed
on burnished metal poles and gave no rest
to hooded eyes that looked with practiced tact,
Disguising just how much they were invest-
ed in the smooth gyrations of a maid,

who hoped she could attract a horny tact-
ful teacher and persuade him to invest
in her, not resting till a deal was made.

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SCOUT'S HONOR

Unbuttoning his overcoat,
the exhibitionist astounds
a troop of vestal Girl Scouts
with his obscene portrayal of
a very horny billy goat.
His crude display is out of bounds,
and pretty soon their leader shouts,
a bit too loudly, “For the love
of God, please put that filthy thing
away before I call the cops!”
He starts to, but, remembering
a motto from his past, he stops
And hollers back, “It’s clean; you stared;
how kind of me to be prepared!”

SONNET 18 ½

Shall I compare thee to a cellar door?
Thou art as wooden and as tightly clos’d,
Unlike the acquiescent paramour
That stands akimbo with her wares expos’d.
Alas, thy portal hath been bolted shut,
The empty tuns within all sere and cold;
Where once the promise of impulsive rut,
Now little there but gossamer and mold.
No vaunted vintage in thy vault was stor’d:
New claret to suffice a pleasant hour,
And nothing more; but better were it pour’d
Than wasted, though the wine had proven sour.
   As jesters may themselves alone amuse,
   So doth the cloister’d self itself abuse.

STOKED
   (with a nod to Bram Stoker)

Now, let’s pretend all causes have a reason
Related to preserving basic rights,
And none of them raise strident calls for treason
That keep us in the TV room some nights,
Transfixed by reruns of the evening news.
How is it, then, they’d like to render kids
Mere gobs of cells on which to test their thews,
A favorite sport of apex hominids?
It’s not enough for parents to complain
When predators come at them with a hatchet.
Bloodsuckers never feel another's pain,
But, sure as smoke spells fire, they love to watch it!
For sheer maleficence in all their parts,
Let wooden stakes be driven through their hearts.

SITUATIONAL MORALITY

I’ve done with myself what I’ve done with myself,
And there’s precious little left to be done.
I know from the unread books on my shelf
That I’ve spent my time having too much fun.
The expectations others had for me
Are muddy water long under the bridge,
And any hope things won’t go bad for me
Has flown clear over yonder saw-tooth ridge.
If the best things in life are still to come,
Then best they come without too much delay—
A promise unfulfilled is bothersome
And fills a heart with bitterness, they say.
The policy that I have come to trust
Is one that most consider obsolete:
Betray your morals only when you must,
And always help old ladies cross the street.

LUCY'S CHILDREN

When clever apes took heart and left the trees
To walk upon pristine primeval plains,
They learned by incremental small degrees
                 To stand erect
                 And to perfect
The art of building shelter from the rains
And making lethal weapons to protect
Themselves from lurking predatory beasts.
Much later they developed tribal laws
And found a way to culture special yeasts
                 To brew a beer
                 That brought them near
The gods that seemed to be the very cause
Of everything that they had come to fear.
But how in heaven did it come to pass
That folk descended from a common mother
Would raise their hackles in the tawny grass—
                 From gelatin
                 To skeleton,
Equipped and poised to massacre each other
For headlines in the Evening Bulletin.

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OF AGE

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MENSCH

The lengths he’d go to for his intimate
associates were always measured on
a sliding scale. His effort knew no quit.
He’d often, for the sake of pleasure, gone

the extra mile. Perhaps you wonder whether
what worked for him worked just as well for them.
It did. The object was to come together,
for his approach to liaisons was dem-

ocratic and demotic. He was fond
of outcomes leaving everybody winners,
and never less inclined to form a bond
with righteous sorts than with committed sinners.

A man who can adapt to any season
is good to go, and needs no other reason.

HYPNOTHERAPY

“Just look into my eyes,” the hypnotist
Commands. The problem is that I’m a skeptic
With symptoms of a chronic pessimist.
I don’t demand a life that’s antiseptic,

For I have learned to get along with germs;
And though I’m not immune to strong suggestion,
With heart disease I haven’t come to terms:
My lust for her has never been in question,

But hers for me is hard to understand.
She’s beautiful and achingly erotic,
So why would she desire to lend a hand
To one uptight incurable neurotic?

She lets her fingers wander up my thighs
And says again, “Just look into my eyes."

ALCOLOGIA

I thought her word was money in the bank,
As solid as the coin from royal mints,
But little did I know how much she drank

When she indulged the urge to fill her tank.
That time she said I was her charming prince
I thought her word was money in the bank,

But looking back, I have myself to thank
For being blind to signs, and now I wince
A little. Did I know how much she drank

When I came home and our apartment stank
Of schnapps? Perhaps she gave her mouth a rinse,
I thought. Her word was money in the bank

Until the evening when she drew a blank
And couldn’t say my name. So many hints,
But little did I know how much she drank.

Our long affair—if I may be so frank—
Comprised successive out-of-wedlock stints.
I thought her word was money in the bank,
But little did I know how much she drank.

THE LOOM OF SUDDEN EXITS

Since our days seemed unnumbered, like birds on the winds
               That blow over the earth,
We were stunned by how quickly misfortune rescinds
               What was granted at birth.

We’ve experienced pleasure, have traveled and grown,
              And been given free rein,
But our time was just borrowed and never our own,
              So we shouldn’t complain.

We had hoped for a lifetime of three-score and seven
              To come up with a plan,
And a subsequent pleasant vacation in heaven
               For a limitless span.

Such provisions are normally left up to God,
                And it’s good this is true,
For we creatures who spend all our lives treading sod
                Do not know what we do.

Though the Father’s decrees may be vexing for Men,
               They’re immutable laws.
Any Buddhist expecting to live life again
               Is just grasping at straws.

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ALMOST PERFECT

Her smile is diabolically angelic,
Her glance a swipe of emery, her wit
As coarse as whole-grain mustard. Reared on melic
Endearments lavished by a pair of proud
Indulgent parents disinclined to sit
In judgment, she is laudably endowed

With confidence but also has a clear
Disdain for adulation that equates
To moral insufficiency: A dear
Young fellow told her she was everything
A man could want; she said she never dates
Good boys whose only virtue is to fling

Bouquets of cloying roses. Football is
Her favorite sport—its draw has much to do
With sudorific contact. Suitors quiz
Her on the stats and standings in the league
So far this season. She inspects the crew
Who vie to man her vessel, pulls a swig

Of beer, then yaws her body up the stairs
To take a shower, cotton garments clinging
To contours graven into several pairs
Of locked and loaded eyes. They always look,
But most pretend to fault the Siren singing
And not themselves:  If only she could cook …

MAN TO MAN, IN THE FLICKERING LIGHT

Before the fire goes out, please add another log
or two, and while you’re up turn off the kitchen lights—
but only after you are certain that the dog
has done his business in the yard, and you have let
him in and locked the door. I’m pretty sure tonight’s
the night I’ll find out whether you can hold your water,
so grab the whiskey from the shelf and don’t forget
the glasses. We have many things to talk about,
Including liberties you’ve taken with my daughter;
it’s time we had a man-to-man and hashed it out.

The fact you didn’t bolt suggests that you have learned
a thing or three about respect, and that is good
for both of us because as far as I’m concerned
you made yourself my business when you told my girl
you wanted her. Just so I’m not misunderstood …
I think you’ll do, and I’m relieved—I’d hate it if
I had to shoot you on the spot. She is a pearl,
without a doubt, but underneath there’s still an oyster
that’s sharp with iodine. Now pour another stiff
one for us both—talk’s easier when throats are moister.

Our choices plot a twisted path. You chose my Jenny,
and that’s a credit to your taste, but just because
she loves you too is not to say there won’t be many
times when your life plays different from the way you thought
it might. Be honest, and admit you knew is was
a gamble from the start. I understand how women
can overmatch a man—the girl I married taught
me that, and she was Jenny’s mom. In one-on-one
collisions, yielding to the wife makes you seem human:
the same advice I lately gave my natural son.

THE THINGS GOD CANNOT DO

For God, all things are possible—except
when what we’re thinking of is one of those
the precepts of His Cosmic Law foreclose.
Creation done, He backed away and slept

on it, and later (as another act
of kindness) added reason to the mix
so that our minds should have a better fix
on what is real and what is not. In fact,

it always was His Nature to despise
a contradiction; furthermore, He stays
within the bounds He sets, for in His Eyes
a hypocrite’s the worst. Yes, there were days

when He Himself was tempted to create
a stone so heavy even He would find
it hard to lift. But that’s why He’s so great—
the Universal Order of His Mind

would not permit such obvious abuse
of basic logic—that is why He’s God:
His acts reflect His Being (though this loose
interpretation scarcely gets the nod

from tenured theologians). Anyhow,
consistency is not the only clear
delimitation tempering His Pow-
er. (Things He simply will not do are near

at heart to those He can’t, and only raise
distinctions lacking difference.) God can not
impede free will and force you to allot
a portion of your life to fervent praise

for Him, or make you unto others do
what’s right. He cannot pause the sun (though some
may disagree), or let a nun become
a priest, or make a Muslim love a Jew.

 

A TASTE

      De gustibus non est disputandum

“There’s no disputing taste” is sometimes said
In order to conceal antipathies
Entrenched inside the guarded speaker’s head.
A suitor so unwilling to displease

A pretty girl whose taste he finds distasteful
Should seek employment as a diplomat
(For not to do so seems a little wasteful,
Considering the times). It’s likely that

The girl desires a challenge. One should play
It cool, but not too cool. Aggressive ploys
Are worth their weight in gold, unless they weigh
So little that they sound like jingles boys

Compose while walking home from middle school.
The girls (apprentice women) have a knack
For telling true contenders from a fool
Whose one redeeming virtue is a lack

Of overblown self-confidence. Good taste
Is often nothing else than making sure
Expansive sentiments are not misplaced;
Good timing is the art of making more

Of what’s available. To disagree
But not be disagreeable just proves
A lad is serious. Good taste, we’ve read,
Is timeless.
                 Now, regarding you and me,
We have a taste for anything that moves,
And when it’s time to move into the bed-
Room, several other rules of thumb apply.
Be sure to kiss her; kissing does a lot
To minimize the chance she’ll question why
She's even there with you, and gets her hot,

Besides. See to it that you’re both undressed
In half the time it takes for you to say
“I love (to do) you.” Sup her plumpest breast
As though it were your last, without delay.

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LESSONS FOR THE MACULATE

It's sad how many persons never know
Directions in which they should rightly travel.
They go wherever they decide to go,
And soon their poorly planned designs unravel,

Which leaves them in an ill-constructed place
Where utter alienation is the norm.
A vain attempt to save a little face
Will not a dissipated life reform,

And neither will a promise to atone
Erase the livid stains that mar the skin.
One must, when one believes he's all alone,
Raise up the light that's hidden deep within

And wear it like a jewel-studded crown.
To be a good example for oneself,
A merit no detractor should put down,
Is better than a trophy on the shelf.

Signaling unearned virtue's not the point
And should in every instance be avoided:
No Magi from the Orient will anoint
A boy whose inner gifts were thus exploited.

SEA CHANGES

A restless sea below the idle stars
lent substance to the vague disquietude
enveloping the men
who savored single malt and smoked cigars
out on the cedar deck
above the beach. The remnants of the food

they’d eaten earlier resembled wreck-
age washed ashore. “I’d do it all again,”

the older of the two declared at last.
He sipped and puffed, then added, “No regrets.”
The younger shook his head,
remembering some moments from his past,
and poured another ounce
into his glass. The sum of unpaid debts
incurred on surreptitious flights amounts
to little once the faith of youth is dead

and buried. Better to forget, perhaps,
than dwell too much upon the leaden weight
of history, unsure
of whether living down a shameful lapse
in judgment is as bad
as dying loved and honored in a state
of unfulfillment. Nothing’s ironclad
in worn relationships, and there’s no cure,

preventive or remedial, for grief.
The eastern sky now showed a lemon wedge
of moon; a tethered dog
began to bark as waves broke on a reef.
“And what about your wife?
The way she yammered set my teeth on edge
last night. So, do you think there’s any life
left in your marriage?” Strained, the dialogue

continued. “Brother, I’m not sure I care.
It isn’t very likely she will trust
me anymore, and I
won’t live like that. Besides, this girl—I swear—
could raise the dead and make
them dance. I haven’t felt such rampant lust
in nearly twenty years. My one mistake
was not pursuing sooner. If I die

tonight, I’ll die a happy man.” Quite well
the younger fellow understood desire
too strong to countermand,
for he himself had grazed the fringe of hell
another balmy autumn
some years before. He’d dared to play with fire,
and he was glad his wife had never caught him.
So little light there was, but so much sand.
 

THE LAST FAST WOMAN

While I was wolfing lox and bagels
A buxom woman did her Kegels
To tighten up her pelvic floor,
Thus proving that cream cheese is more

Than meets the eye. I slipped a slice
Of ripe tomato in -- how nice
Of me to go the extra mile.
Good Lord! -- if you had seen her smile

You would have married her at once.
She didn't need the full nine months
To bear a child, for she possessed
Impatience at its very best.

It only took a little while
To march that woman down the aisle.
Alas, the bridegroom wasn't I,
But some much more impulsive guy.

Now, let this be a lesson for
Those men who ripened flesh adore:
No cantaloupe or watermelon
Will satisfy a latent felon,

So if you see her half undressed,
And you are suitably impressed,
Then strike while still the iron's hot
And know, at least, you took a shot.

FORM

A semblance of contrition can, sometimes,
satisfy the need for bland social norms,
just as archaic phrasing and forced rhymes
can flesh out the strict demands of fixed forms.

Sincerity's a luxury dearly
bought with much unnecessary friction
between ideals you long ago nearly
believed in and next year's firm conviction.

Opposing theories as to what a good
life consists of seem equally valid
once it is recognized and understood
that existence is a mesclun salad.

Ignoring, for the sake of argument,
your laudable impulse to lead a life
based on moral values, are you content
with the way things stand? Consulting your wife

is not a bad idea. Surely she
has formed opinions of her own, to which
you are entitled by marriage. Agree
with her, unless you feel it's time to switch

your loyalty -- fresh starts often require
the compromise of principles, your own
or someone else's. It's wrong to desire
gold stars until the right seeds have been sown.

_______________

OVERBOARD

Spring is a season flush with fertile mud,
When birds that winter-over farther south
Are sacrificial harbingers whose blood
Will quickly spill and overfill the mouth

Of any old quiescent family river
Meandering along its riverbed.
An overworked but enterprising liver
Uncorks the mind aboard a wine-soaked head.

And so it is, we swear by bonded whiskey,
Which works in drought and likewise flood, though not
By any stretch the slightest bit as risky
As burners turned up high but then forgot.

At first, we thought we heard our mother calling,
But then we realized the sky was falling.

EVENT HORIZONS IN A SALT MARSH

By early June, the morning sky begins to lighten
At least an hour or two before the sun appears
Above the east horizon, poised to warm and brighten
The fertile fields already sown with hybrid seed.
Abundant light assured, a farmer only fears
Extended droughts that spoil the crop but spare the weed.

There's water everywhere! And it's too bad that salt
Presents a problem, even for the enterprising
Agrarian savant, who'd never think to fault
The earth, the dusty mote to which we cling, the raft
That bears us through the starry deep. The sea is rising,
A plight that's likely far beyond our art and craft

To remedy. The charge that we're self-victimized
Does nothing but incite political debate
And heated arguments among the polarized
Antagonists, which only adds to global warming.
The willful inability to moderate
One's speech might be the first bad habit worth reforming.

RETIREMENT ACCOUNT

The heroes of our youth have gotten old.
In fact, that's how it's been for many years.
Please promise you won't make me say I told
You so, but no one cares about our tears.

A runny nose is just a flow of snot
(Perhaps a sign of nascent allergies)
Commemorating what the world is not.
Remember this each time you start to sneeze.

By some auspicious stroke of luck or fate
(No use to second-guess or wonder why),
Although we've noted grievous losses late-
Ly, neither one of us shall ever die.

You will, if you should doubt this vatic statement,
Observe your own decline without abatement.

GENESIS, EXODUS, GRATITOUS AMBIGUITY,
           GRUMBLERS

There's always been a special place in Hell
For human souls whose sins are darker than
The darkest written down in Satan's plan --
So dark, the Archfiend must look close to tell

What ilk of creature straightway from its tomb
Arrives. A simple beast obsessed with pelf?
Or more the spitting image of himself?
(When Satan sought to compromise Eve's womb,

It wasn't out of lust for worldly gain,
But rather to inflict eternal loss
On beings in the purview of the Boss
And thus assure the sovereignty of pain.)

Intrigued, he trains these souls to be the mentors
Whose mission is to mold a fitter demon
With codons from their self-corrupted semen,
Instilling traits of flagrant non-repenters.

                             *

In Heaven there's a special place as well
(As if there's anyplace up there that's not
Especially special), warm but never hot,
Where saints and other noble spirits dwell,

A place where one plus one is more than two,
A land where milk and honey overflow.
And there, a grove where pomegranates grow
And Christians resurrect their inner Jew.

In such estates good hearts have always dwelt,
Though probing minds may founder in the gray
Of questions: Why does God seem far away?
And why are frozen doctrines slow to melt?

                            *

What purpose has an afterlife without
Some further end? Can anyone be sure
Eternity allows for nothing more
Than static limits fixed beyond all doubt?

Imagine victims standing with their foes
On stages in the after-afterlife,
Discussing whether residues of strife
Shall be effaced before the curtains close.

                           *

The Scriptures are an artifact of pen
And sword where words of God are roughly writ,
The final refuge of a hypocrite
Who utters truth but lacks belief. Amen.

C.B. Anderson Poems in EPO Online Prior to 2023

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