Why The Face ?

hey kids, it's uncle peter again. if you know me, then you know i'm a tour guide. if ya don't, then the last fact is irrelevant, hell, it's irrelevant whether you know me or not. i had a tour the other day, 7 people, in a vehicle that had seating for eight. that is the main thing to consider, above all else. well, maybe that's the main thing. anyhoo, i had this one the other day and at the conclusion, was more appauled, and insulted, then maybe at any other time in my life.

the tour started out fine. i was piloting a vehicle which has a funny configuration, 4 seats inside, and 4 seats outside. as i had two seperate parties, and in the interest of fairness, equity, i said to them all " now if eveyone wants to ride outside, you will force me to 'play dad' and remind you all to switch, half way through." we all laughed, and everyone made friendly eye contact, exchanges of pleasantry, and agreed.

the family from Pennsylvania, one of two parents, and two children who were obviously eager for the back seats offered them fisrt to the other three, one of whom was from Boston, the other two, her parents i think, from Chapel Hill, Boston originally. we all cimbed in, and away we drove.

all along the way we shared, laughed, and communicated as a group. i noticed at one point that the older of the group of three, i think the mother in that trio, had a hard time climbing up and into, or back out of the rear of the truck. it is a high climb, but i provide an extra step stool. she never mentioned any pain at all, i just noticed it. along our ride we talked of coastal plain history, wild horses, and pirates, and their ilk. we snapped pictures. i climbed on and off of the hood of the vehicle, paining my freshly broken toe, to get them all family photos, Kodak moments to last them a life time. i offered them indigenous plants to eat. to keep this growing story short; as i said, we all had fun. then it became time to remind them of "the aforementioned switch."

as all moved around, and the mom of the Boston/Carolina three took her seat, i noticed that her seatbelt looked a little moist and sandy from the inevitable conditions found on the floor of an offroad safari jalopy. i informed her that if the condition of the belt was going to ruin her white slacks, that she didn't have to wear it, it was really no beg deal. this is when she informed me that she was "not concerned about her pants..." she said smugly, she was "more worried about her leg!" this was the first mention of any leg trouble. no matter the reason, at that moment the air changed, a pout began to form as her mature lower lip began to protrude, and from the moment that she crossed her arms and turned to gaze out of the window, we never regained eye contact. the ride back, about thirty minutes, was silent. as everyone looked around, my fingers tapped the terrible rhythm of "I Can't Drive Fifty Five", by Sammy Hagar. You see, i use whatever music the oldies station gives me each morning on the commute in as a distraction when this sort of thing occurs. why oh why it couldn't have been "Kashmir" or "Immigrant Song" by the Zep, i can only wonder, but getting back to the story, and my original point about beeing insulted.

as we all got out, and i was passing out those little cards by which the guests remember me, and how to rate their experience for my boss' sake, i noticed argument between the displeased woman and her spouse. if i were to guess, it was over whether or not to tip me. so as we all shook hands, exchanged mutual appreciations and bid one another farewell, i turned to the woman, and her two. extending my hand, and saying cheerfully " thank you, etc," the man, and the woman i figure to have been the spouse and daughter both smiled a genuine, but almost telling smile. both shook my hand and bid me good day. as i turned to the other woman, hand extended and a sincere "thank you very much, it was nice to-", she took her hands from her pockets, placed them behind her back, and while extending her pout, turned away from me as if i were never there.

i have done a lot of thinking since then. i have mused on the good old throat punch. i even think back to initial feelings of going into mine own pocket and refunding her money, to gain what i might deem my right to give her "what for." but as i think on beyond that, i think of her fear, her bitterness, her hatred. i consider the source, and i am happy, for the first time in my life maybe, at least recently for sure, to let it go. i have no more resaon to fight with her than a shovel which digs a ditch that i may not care for. i have no fight with the tools of those implements which practice on behalf of hatred, bigotry, fear, and the untold stories which chain those which hate me, hate my kind. my fight is with the source of this affliction of the human condition. i just wanted to pass this on to a few i know that would care to listen to this testimonial. i am a human. all i am, is a human. that is all any of us are.
WTF ?

sometimes i think a lot about nothing, and sometimes this makes me feel like a hypocrite...

i was at the grocery store
i go there quite often
they have basic things
and others that i want
i go there quite a lot

it seems that
around holidays
and special times
they ask for money
for the poor
sick and naturally
disastered
they ask but also have
baskets
and bags and boxes
piled up with stuff
to give away

middle grounders

usually during these times
i find myself lined up
with others who go
there a lot
some dressed well
some speak spanish
some with kids
some bare feet
some on skateboards
or just from offices
some so frail
and some so proud
all
together
if separate
but quite often
more often than not

coexistence as probabilities
like numbers on dice
or on ping pong balls
or stones in a lottery

i taste two trips in there
to recall a flavor
which laid itself over my owned thought
those two times

as common practice
the cashiers boss will
have them ask me
or you if you would
like to round your
purchase up from
six and fifteen
or so to seven
dollars and i generally
not even thinking
respond as yes
i would like to
or more like
no i don’t mind
the play works
and i bite the
what is eighty five cents or so
what would i have
done with that

and then

this one day
i am behind a
slightly greater man than me
and when the cashier asks
on behalf of her boss
and whomever holds
the sway to put us all there
the slightly larger human tones
begins the tale of what he has done
of where and how and how much and
of his general distaste for
being hit up like this
as if by common beggars
moved to action by deception
depression addiction apathy and self
inflicted lack of position
i listen to a good few
yes sirs
from the cashier
and as my total is wrung
and
as my electronic transaction approaches
i detect the air of the meek
and the flogged confidence
still in recoil from reproach
as i smile
ignorant in stance and intent
and ask
how is your day

looking up from behind the blue smoke of
her last guest she feigns the smile and says
fine
and how are you today

the second time was with
my wife and daughter
it was cold with rain
and the stressful tight and
heavy shouldered time as
rent
and the rest of the bills
were on her
and were on me
like a good budgeteer
she would also decline to add
the weight less than keys
from our pocket to elsewhere
when asked by the man forced
to ask us
and we left

i said
i don’t care how broke i am
i always go for the round up
or buy the shamrock or the
heart
or whatever
when they give me a pen
i write our daughters name
on it
figure its like karma
or strange credit
even if i barely have the
same to carry
and what is that dollar
or less
what more is that to the needing
against some precocious bullshit story
of giving enough already
really
giving enough
and already
as the hurricanes have stopped
and the earthquakes are no more
and they only shoot your neighbor
and they only rape his son
and the winter says its colder
and with taxes i don’t have to
and the vaccines killed diseases
now they just need kill the autism
and if i had seven dollars
and i needed seven hundred
even faster than tomorrow
i can give you one of my seven
because whats more than owing seven hundred and
one
against the dwindling probability of the next bowl of flour
or how can i worry that i will be secure if my
rent falls late but it wont it never does be
cause
we find it
we do it just like the afflicted
find their water
the trampled find their spirit
and the buried find that just enough voice
work when there is work
hustle when there is not
scrape when hustle fails
borrow when our brothers have and
beg
when not our families
our governments
nor our churches
can
provide

and i have seen the sands
get swept back up the beach
and down again
no matter what the season is
eventuality brings our storm

foreword

it's a lie
to say it's a shame when
one of the herd
falls down;
sickened,
crippled,
dying and/ or lame

a fool's shame to say
that we don't have the
time
to notice the fallen
or
the falling.

we are convinced,
scared into the feeling that
we can't afford the
time
it takes
to look up from the stampede-
wipe the dust from our eyes
created by this futile race
against death;
against looking back.

we tell ourselves
that we can't manage to
track
the sick and the dying,
while the sickness
and the" means to an end"
track us relentlessly
day and night.

foreword

it's a lie
to say it's a shame when
one of the herd
falls down;
sickened,
crippled,
dying and/ or lame

a fool's shame to say
that we don't have the
time
to notice the fallen
or
the falling.

we are convinced,
scared into the feeling that
we can't afford the
time
it takes
to look up from the stampede-
wipe the dust from our eyes
created by this futile race
against death;
against looking back.

we tell ourselves
that we can't manage to
track
the sick and the dying,
while the sickness
and the" means to an end"
track us relentlessly
day and night.

it started as just another hot day, and then the weight of the world replaced the sting of the sweat in my eyes

the joggers are back
as are the cyclists
and the flies
one of the latter
keeps buzzing around my
hands
as i try and bang out
this insignificant
note
useless attempt at
describing
what my days feel like
lately

i have this week been
threatened
by the learning disabled
father
of a learning disabled
street urchin
seen trespassing in my
garden
trespassing i say
subnormal or not
the hardened shell
of my blamelessness
offers no sympathy
while
the memory of my
autistic cousin beckons
as i search our
similarity

it was during the middle
of a three
fourteen hour day
stretch of kayaks
bugs
lotions
salt and brackish water
baths
and one hundred degree
plus heat
i lost eleven pounds
since tuesday
and now it s
saturday

i sit here among my
virtual
crowd of friends
the MC5
iggy's daughter
scene stars from
NYC
and LA
as the better part of
pennsylvania and ohio
swarm outside my
air conditioned
store front door
i hide inside here
sneaking out only briefly
to fetch my red note book
looking for reasons to
remember

if not for these little
trips
i could forget the
sun burns a total but
fading tattoo
reminder of the trials
of the last week and the next week

outside my door
the descending atmosphere
waits patiently
still and
accommodatingly
to wrap itself around me
once again
choking me
sweating me
wringing all sweetness and
moisture from rapidly aging skin
and increasingly intolerant
barking bones
summertime
and the naked dance
of the living

my friends play shows
burn down bars and
honky tonks
and call to let me know
when they will hit
my town
as i sit here
amid the pile of
new and used office supplies
aging kettle corn
and a sample for reference
of the dead biting flies
which tormented the
last group we took up there

funny
some enjoy the show
some overhear the moans
of my associates mid day
and ignore
and maybe not funny but
fascinating how
some will drive by
six to twelve hours of
shantys, row houses
poverty and goats
in the street
just to reach the resort
and
never
question
the eyes they pass to get there
i
have always found
at least interesting
the juxtaposition of
the ideal to the
absoluteness that is
the life of the poor
and the ignorance
of that inequity
by the affluent
the
callous and gratuitous
nature in the
exchange between
the purchasers of dreams
and the sellers of flesh
no penance
no acknowledgment
of the true cost of
the life of
one human being
and the sacrifices made
to provide the whimsical
with the feeling
the experience
of the lived

none
save the children of the
poor and burdened
shall know the
worth of this
assignment

that clarity given
to the bottom
the one on the
crumb
who see the truth
in that discordance
between traveling
class and
water bearer

maybe i write these notes
in an attempt to
never forget the
weight of that
basket
or the faces of those
on the side of my road
or the fact that the
only true distinction
between president and pauper
between doctor and waiter
bartender and drunk
is lost
gone since the moment
the stars aligned and
the many sets of these
twins were born
and were then scattered
separated by the
boastful hot breath of humanity

vouchers for paycheck

there is a
sense shared
by the ordinary
by the down trodden
folk
a misty common
thread
which warms my
heart

it
comes from the
acceptance
without question
of

participation with
in reason
in

and the
stewardship and grace
with which
we provincial
people
care for
serve and endure
the master
callous society

washing the feet
of those that
mock us

for therein lies
mean comfort

unheralded

derived from
the shared travails
and tolerances of
we
silhouettes
we outlines of
objects
seen against that light

we arrive pressed
cut out
forged
ready
willing
and clothed in that
consolation
that while
radicals
of all sorts seek
to inflame
to mislead
and then rise
to power on these
our well bronzed
backs
we hold the truth
not promised
yet
brought the hard labored
about what can be done in one day
versus
what can be done with one mind

when we are
willing to
believe as
our children
that we are heroes
we will no
longer
carry that water

so endure
human kind

driving past that church on Beaverdam

laying
lying
laying
lying

only belly sounds
squeals and the grinding of gears
in the still mid morning
-angry morning

what do you want

what do YOU want
I count the prayers...

well you shouldn't
i lost my smile.....
a million miles from home

what do YOU WANT???
i
hear them scream at me
as i blow past the graveyard
but i can't make sense
of a single word said

i am sure,
in a way
it's pretty close to
slow down

in a grandmother's way
-or like an angry old man