Oedipus Blues

It’s depressing to realize that
your whole life,
or one aspect of it at least,
has already been written;
scripted by some long-dead Greek dude.
To see that you really would like to
yank open your mother’s snatch,
squinch in your head,
and wriggle your way back up
into her womb,
like some breach baby in reverse.
What’s even worse is to know
that to your mother, this is
an acceptable state of affairs.
It’s like when you were three
and you played that game with mom
where you buried yourself head-first,
curled up in your fetal pajamas,
into the warm porridge-bowl space
defined by her open lap;
like the bugs you collected in jars
that rolled themselves into
blissfully slumbering balls
until the coast was clear.
The second chapter of the story
finds you choking on amniotic fluid
as you hack your way out of Grendel’s lair,
axe swinging, breathless with your
very right to be.
All the while with one fearful eye
on the shiny table laid out for you
by lizard-mom
with sweet gooey custard and
bologna sandwiches dripping mayonnaise,
cartoons and comic books
and a soft bed to sleep in 'til noon.
The third act directs you to
join the world of the fathers
and dance Achilles’ sun-dance
but you’ve sprained your ankle
and the men don’t recognize you
in your mother’s wig and dress,
and furthermore, it’s too dark to see your feet
and you appear to be walking on
the surface of the moon.
So now you’re just this drawing in a book,
peeled off the page and flapping about,
and this goddess comes along
and blows you back up,
inflates you like a balloon
into three dimensions.
So you marry her.
And imagine your surprise
when you wake up the next morning
with an evil hag next to you in bed;
Baba Yaga or the Wicked Witch of the West
like in some fucking fairy tale,
and she’s got your mother’s face
and your mother’s voice,
and the pussy with teeth
opens you up and sucks you back in.

Who Decides

I don’t know how to say this,
‘Cause words are like nails
sealing the lid on the coffin,
Disregarding what they are not.
This is really hard to say,
‘Cause my thoughts on the matter
can’t be nailed down.
They ride the flume,
In one ear and out the other,
Like greased pigs,
Mischievous and squealing.
Here’s the thing,
And you’ll probably say
"Who cares?" or
"This guy has too much time
on his hands."
But here it is:
Things happen from moment to moment.
Spermatozoa number three-thousand-six
Knocks on the door, takes off his shoes,
and pours a drink;
Mrs. Egg leans back, smiles, winks,
and spreads her legs,
And in that moment
an entirely new citizen of Earth
is ushered in
through velvet curtains.
Another example:
(stay with me on this)
You wake up with a headache,
miss your bus,
walk three city blocks,
turn a corner,
and find yourself in a really bad movie.
On cue, an extra turns, points and fires.
A tiny phallic metal projectile
makes a vaginal gash in your flesh
where there shouldn’t be one.
Three feet to the left
and the brick wall would be shattered
But it’s not, and you are,
And now it’s all over.
Your job, your marriage,
your upcoming vacation;
All gone in one moment.
Lots of other things happen
from moment to moment.
You eat a sandwich, blow your nose,
Watch TV, yawn,
Wait for the light to change,
Smoke a cigarette, buy some cheese,
Check the weather, brush your teeth,
And so on...
Now here’s the tricky part:
Are all moments essentially the same?
Who decides?
Are some moments bigger and fatter
than others?
Are some moments flat and shiny
while others are prickly and thin?
Are some moments covered with hair
and other moments bald and sweaty?
Do some moments click and chitter
like insects?
Do other moments giggle hysterically?
Do some moments wear dark glasses
while others stare directly into the sun?
Are some moments wiggly like jello
while others run down the side of your leg?
Who decides?
You? Me? God?
The President of the United States?
Gazillions of moments
chug along the timespace choochoo,
Appearing and disappearing
like frog-breath bubbles
from the bottom of the pond,
Zim-zumming on and off
like the broken light bulb in the closet.
Maybe we just notice some moments
more than others.
You’re probably thinking that
I should go out and get a job.
Who thinks about this
kind of shit anyway?

David Aronson is a visual artist and poet active in the underground zine and mail-art world. His work has appeared in Spunk, Gristle, Driver’s Side Airbag, Siren’s Silence and The Brobdingnagian Times, as well as in collaboration with experimental poet Mark Sonnenfeld for Marymark Press and his own zine of underground art and poetry, The Alchemical Wedding.

Web Site

Email: David Aronson

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