Sainthood

To be a saint you have to give things up
And hug an absence like a worldly soul
Clings to a lover when the act of love
Spasms its life away in ecstasy.

To saints, this life is only worth our living
If we can give a thing away or up.
The world must be renounced, like tigers must
Renounce the jungle when they meet the cage

Or men renounce their bachelorhood for marriage.
A nature civilized, a freedom tossed
Aside, a luxury given away
So that its lack will cast a greater shadow

That presence ever did, and like a sign,
Point the location of the effort that
It takes to live without it, in the name
Of an idea of grace, which says that man

Cannot stand taller than himself unless
He cuts his own legs off beneath the knees.

Copyright 2008 Matthew J Wells

mixed signals

Concession Speech

Want to know why we booed the moment you
Brought up the winner’s name? We booed because
That’s what we’ve done since you started campaigning.
We booed and hooted, shouted slurs and threats,
And you kept talking, so of course we kept
It up, like the punk kid who tests his teacher
By pushing at the envelope until
It breaks, or Teacher shuts him down in front
Of the whole class (which makes him like a hero).
That’s what we felt like when you finally
Called us on what we kept on yelling out.
And that’s just fine, okay? We understand.
No harm, no foul. We knew you had to do it
The moment that the Media reared up
And made a stink about it. So instead
Of talking smack, we muttered it, or nudged
Each other with a wink, or we just smiled
That smile we share when we know what we’re thinking.

No smiles like that tonight. We’re standing here
Listening to this pod person concede
As if it didn’t matter if we lost
To That One, and our jaws are on the floor.
We want to cheer; give us some lines to cheer.
We don’t know where to clap. What are you saying?
Why aren’t you feeding us the meal we want?
We want red meat, we want the grease, the fries,
The shot of Jack that makes your eyeballs sweat,
And here you are, serving us something healthy?
What the fuck, John? You spent the last two months
Outlining what the other guy will do
To us and to the country if he won,
And now you tell us “Sorry; never mind.
He won, so all that stuff takes second place
To the high office that he’ll occupy,
And you should give your loyalty to him.”
Oh yeah? Fuck him. And fuck you too for thinking
That this is why we voted for your ass.

Enough, okay? Enough about how wealthy
You feel because you fought the losing fight.
Only the poor are losers, and we didn’t
Support you to be poor –- we followed you
Because you told us what we had to hear
In words with secret meanings. So when you
Say “honor,” we don’t know what that word means.
There’s no honor in losing; what we did,
We did to win, and then claim victory
No matter what the outcome. That’s our way.
And you walked down that way with us, with your
Eyes open, so you know as well as we do
That this does not end here -- this fight goes on.
So why for Christ’s sake aren’t you saying that?

You have to tell us to fight on, and be
Guerillas for the Cause, not silent soldiers.
We want something to shoot at, not salute.
Tell us whatever way you want that you
Believe That One is not our President --
We’ll translate if we have to. Just don’t say
We owe him loyalty because a principle’s
At stake here. Principles are why we fight.
Tell us that he’s the enemy –- or if
He isn’t, then please, please tell us who is.
Just do not ask us here to follow you
Down to defeat, or off the center stage.
We do not follow men –- we march against them.
Run up the flag. Tell us who wants to burn it.
Show us the enemy. We’ll march that way.
We are the arrow. Point us at the target.
We are the bullet. Aim us at the heart.

Copyright 2008 Matthew J Wells

I am, actually

Meanwhile, in this country

a long time ago, in a country far far away . . .

Survey USA posted this map of a poll they did exactly two years ago, asking 600 voters in every state how they would vote if the election were held today. Break out your blue crayons and start coloring in tonight's results as the polls start closing at 7 . . .

My Name Is Alfred

I09 has a speculative post on the identity of The Black Glove, the mastermind behind all the Bat-breaking in Grant Morrison's Batman: RIP storyline. They postulate Tim (Robin) Drake, among others.

My two cents? A couple years back I drafted notes for a series of 12 stories, six about comic heroes and six about their arch-villains. Since I'm probably never going to get around to writing any of them, the Batman story was going to center around a blood transfusion which could only be given to the wounded and dying Bruce Wayne by his father -- said transfusion being then given by Alfred. Because it's always made sense to me that Alfred was really Bruce's dad, after an affair with Martha Wayne.

And that's my guess about the identity of The Black Glove. It's going to be a two-part revelation: the "villain" is Alfred, and Alfred is going to be revealed as Bruce's father. And what happens when you've based your entire crime-fighting persona on the senseless death of your father, only to find out that your real father is alive and well? The persona of Batman has no reason to live.

Hence Batman: RIP.

Weekend Update

My Name Is Bruce. "Nose picking and ass-grabs." Village Voice. "Awful recycled jokes." New York Times. "Total hoot." Me. Saw it Friday night at 7:20. Bruce was there, wearing the same pants he wore in the film, and did a 20 minute Q&A afterwards that was just as much fun as the movie. (I taped it, so if anyone wants to hear it, let me know.) He zinged the bad reviews the movie got, so I hope he reads this on MovieWeb this morning:

In a surprise twist of Halloween fate, the film with the strongest per screen average was Bruce Campbell's My Name Is Bruce, which stomped the competition with $18,800 playing just three showings in one theater. If given the 3,646 screens that belonged to the number one champ High School Musical 3: Senior Year, the film could have pulled in a potential $68 million to become one of the biggest surprise hits of the fall.

Trick or treat. I've started to write poetry again, which is yet another way to avoid rewriting the play. (Hooray for lack of discipline!) I'll probably be posting them once a week, like the pictures. (Hooray for discipline!)

Random Weblinks:

And a Rusty Nail while reading blog posts.

The M/F dating ritual and its discontents.

Time to move to Earth-2.

In our country? These are all over Utah.

In the immortal words of Mark Twain: Suppose you were an idiot. And suppose you were a member of Congress. But I repeat myself."

Trick or Treat

You never know just what you are expecting
Until it is rejected or denied.
Knock on the door, and when it opens, hold
Up your bright orange plastic bag, and you
Will know, the moment something drops inside,
Whether it was the gift you really wanted
By how your heart swells up, or plummets down,
Or clenches like a baby’s hand that grabs
Too late at what was meant for other fists --
The elevator drop you feel when you
See someone that you didn’t know you liked
That much walk off with someone else instead
Of you. That’s when you know what you walked in
Expecting; that’s when you know you did
Want something –- when it goes to someone else.
And even though the target of your heart
Is ignorant of what you wanted or
Expected from her, she is still the one
You blame -– the one who should have read your mind,
The one who should have known by looking at you,
By all you did not say and never asked,
That you were sweet on her. So it’s her fault,
Not yours (it’s never yours) that she went off with
The man who asked her out, instead of you:
The one who stood there saying “Trick or treat,”
And left it up to her to guess which one
You really wanted.

Copyright 2008 Matthew J Wells

Halloween in the East Village