Crawlspace Apocalypse

“And I awoke, and found me here.”

–Keats

High-density polyethylene

encapsulates my underfloor

of red Virginia clay

and pale as snow a scene

that never was supposed before

but now is near today.

You'll fit in there, should that befall,

where bugs no longer crawl.

If you go out and look, for dread,

you'll mind a heap of hope.

Not expecting the unexpected?

It's at the door,* you dope!

Now only Tree of Heaven† buds.

Scant future's left to drain.

2,4-D's‡ murdering our studs,

and bugs no longer plane.

Luck favors the lucky,

or those with half a brain.

But things will soon get mucky.

Best come in from that rain!

*Cf. Joe Orton, What the Butler Saw: “Just when one least expects it, the unexpected always happens.”

†Tree-of-Heaven = Ailanthus altissima. Also called "Tree of Hell."

‡https://www.nrdc.org/stories/24-d-most-dangerous-pesticide-youve-never-heard.

An earlier, very different version of this poem appeared in the New English Review in February 2023.

Standards

“No more of an idiot than anyone else, for fuck’s sake—but always just as much of a one!”

—French Army chant

Ever since Napoleon III sought to impose pants colored rose madder (garance) on the Chasseurs alpins, they’ve refused even to say the word red (rouge) and speak instead of bleu-cerise (cherry blue), the color of blood on their blue uniforms—except when talking of the shade of a beloved woman’s lips, the red in the Legion of Honour’s fourragère (dubbed la rouge), or the red in the French tricolor.

Neither will they say jaune (yellow), but rather jonquille (daffodil).

One must have some standards, after all!

*Chant of the 25th battalion of the Chasseurs alpins: « Pas plus con qu’un autre nom de nom, Mais toujours autant ! »

Holus-bolus

The Alexamenos graffito. Palatine Hill, Rome, ca. 200 CE.

When I was small in Africa we called it "your bum."

In England, it was your arse.

But in America the Saxon r was dropped

(deemed arsy-versy?)

in the Earsification of everything,

and it became "your ass"

(that humble beast of burden).

What’s in a name? Why everything!

It’s by their names we know the things we love.

Speak to it gently as you kiss your own goodbye.

It’s served you well, I trust? A faithful companion. But now it’s time to jump.

Volod'ka's in the kitchen, Xi's out on the stoop,

Bibi's in the bathroom, tooting the Last Trump.

June 10, 2024