The Once and Future King

Reading Robert Bly's Iron John. Absolutely amazing. "A book about men". Not at all in contrast to a book about women or a snooty writing that exculdes gay men or transgender, nor a book about tough guys or anythng of the sort. REALLY interesting...Jungian in tone.

He talks about the archetypal kings, the sacred king, which is the transcendent male motif -- Adonai, Jesus, Allah, Odin, Jupiter, etc, and the inner king, the sacred within each man (and woman for each matter, as each man has an inner queen as well.)

One statement that totally blew me away was that "addiction does not have to do with Colombian drug lords, but with the abscence of the King"...not having to do with a lot of inner city fathers not taking in their kids, but really the other way around. Because we have ousted "the King", the inner sacred, (if we ever really honored the inner sacred as a society), all below falls; because we don't know our sacred selves, the poor suffer and the rich glut. Thus we have politicans who care more for religious fundamentalism than for humans, corporations into money and power, millions of addicted souls, and everything in between.

I haven't gotten to the point in the book where Bly talks about transformation of self and society, but in my opinion, this transformation takes place in the growing consciousness movement, the infiltration of Eastern religion into the West, the restructuring of Western religion, things like the Occupy movement, artists, musicians, actors, activists, the common man becoming more environmentally and socially conscious, 12-step recovery, the women's movement (for it takes the discovery of the Inner Queen concurrent with the discovery of the Inner King to bring society afloat -- one without the other is not enough -- and a growing matriarchy does not preclude the arrival of the King -- the two can coexist).

One component, along with the missing King, that has been lacking is making peace with the father -- ones physical father. This does not mean that the father has to become a good father, or even be present. One may not even know ones father, but I think the more one knows about his father and his father's story and situation, his good and bad, the more one can reconcile.

Thus the men's movement. Okay ladies, please stop snickering. This in no way opposes the woman's movement but arises hand in hand with it. We have our issues, us men, straight, gay and transgender. We all have fathers and have issues with them. I will share a Robert Bly exercise for digesting ones relaionship with ones father in a later post. It is rather ingenious and has helped me so much with my perspective on my Dad.

.

two-points

I am okay
with being here
but not
with being alive

the murmuring from outside
the half open
isolation room door
the motion
of my shallow breaths –
in
and out

they’ve all put up
with my crap
for half the night
as have I

and now
in two-point leathers
my left wrist
and left ankle
strapped to the side
of the gurney

with nowhere to go
but on my back
or on my side
I'm relieved to finally be left
with no option
but to rest

Terra crying
terrifying
Mother of dry
crumbling Earth
slips in sieve
rivers give
way to dust
the oceans pray
in sickening floods
leaves turn ash
we’ve come at last
to drown in glut
and so much blood
we're covered
in cash
we cover
our ass
we cannot
turn back

easter #2 -- take-out

I see no sin
In this man
I wash my Hands
of This whole
Freakshow –
Left hand
Despising Right,
Cutting it off,
Not knowing
What it is doing,
A chicken with no head,
An eye
For an eye
For an eye --
The whole world
Burnt to the ground
To kill a mosquito
Please, sweet Savior,
Deliver us
Sweet and sour pork,
Chinese take-out
For the hungry
For the homeless
For the homosexual
For the ugly
Yes, even for the polished polygamist
For the political pimp
For the farthest shore
We must all reach someday
Each in our own way,
In shambles, shaken to the core,
The immensity of our pride and our vanity
Our cruelty and our simple thoughtlessness,
Likewise washed up,
Quivering sickening
Like beached Leviathan
Reminding us
Never to forget
The helpless
And the hopeful
Reaching down
To kiss our heads

I find her this way

face drawn in deep concern, something being turned over in her mind -- the memory of a lost loved one? pain over a relationship in transition? I find her this way in Walgreen's, feet set apart, body pulled back, staring at the chocolate rack in the candy aisle.

end of an era

My last day at the office,
trying to say goodbye to callers,
lying, saying,
"Au revoir" instead.

Scribble notes to myself on the backsides of used notebook paper --
RE: autobiography --
make it true, but make it sad....
No,
make it sadder than sad...but funny!

Lettie calls
three times,
once to talk about her cats and then to say goodbye,
a second time to say goodbye again,
a third, to hear me say, "Hello, this is Marc..." and then hang up.

I am reading a poem out of "The Big Book of Daniel".
I read, "Didn't I, your thief of thieves, your dream thief,
Share sleepless nights, mumble in the moonlight,
'Reach for the sky?'"

sparkler

There is something intimate
about holding a sputtering, silver sparkler
while on your balcony
at night,
alone,
on the 4th of July.

My case manager had put the idea in my head –
“No plans for the 4th?
Come on, Marc,
light a sparkler or something.”

Truth is, at 44,
I had never lit one.

When we were kids
(it always starts with “when we were kids”, doesn’t it?,
as if past parental negligence could explain
why we are lame today.)
When we were kids,
my sister and I weren’t allowed sparklers,
not even matches;
no snap dragons, let alone bottle rockets…

(…so of course only my best friend knew of my pyrotechnical propensities,
honed in the back yard on the stones
with wispy, flying Kleenex’s, alive with flame, floating toward the house,
and little plastic cupfuls of kerosene spilt over the rocks and then set afire...)

Even a mama’s boy can get his hillbilly on at age 44 –
let that pyro out of the closet in a little 4th of July tribute,
share a moment with his inner child
on the balcony
with his lone starlight spewing against the darkness,

coincidentally,
at a time in his life when his love has finally become a thing to explore,
sweet strange strawberry
to be kissed
before tasted.