Woolgathering – David Lohrey

August 2, 2024

Within an Inch of His Life

He’d come for a beating, this Yank, and by golly, he got one.
He’s been asking for it for years.
What’s the point of spending $2995 on a trip
to Ireland if you can’t get whooped if you so choose?
He was begging for it. He wanted a bloody nose.

He got his money’s worth, I’ll say.
He’d heard it said that he’d find somebody in Dublin, 
if he looked around, who’d punch him straight away if he
said what he thought of James Joyce … that he was a low-down
second-rate writer, by God. 

That’s right: if he said out loud 
what he’d been thinking for years: that James Joyce stinks.
“Say it in Dublin, if you’re so tough,” his friend Norm Davis
bellowed over a glass of Boston’s pride, Sam Adams. “Say it 
like you mean it.” John Sullivan promised to do just that.

“You’re such a big shot. Take yourself back to the home country 
and blaspheme the giant: no, not Yeats; he was a genius. Joyce!
Tell them what you really think; tell them you think Faulkner’s 
the better writer. Go on, you prick, tell him what you said about Joyce 
last night and how Faulkner could write circles around him. 

Call him Jimmy Joyce! That’ll do it! Say it to the first guy you meet, 
about Joyce, who you’ve called a fraud. I dare you! Let’s see if you 
make it back in one piece!
Johnny Boy, you wimp!”
Everyone knows Faulkner’s from Ireland, too, but they won’t admit it.

Sullivan booked the Polaris Tour to Ireland, seven nights, flying 
Premium on account of his size. At 6’5”, Johnny needs leg room. 
Johnny’s wife stayed home with the kids. His pal Michael Borowitz came, 
too. Michael’s a big fan of the Irish, but his family hails from somewhere 
in Cracow. He prefers James Joyce to Witold Gombrowicz any day.

Michael went to the Francis Bacon exhibit by himself. He’s loved Bacon 
ever since seeing Last Tango in Paris. Johnny took off by himself. The first
guy he met asked him where he was from. The guy said he wouldn’t be caught 
dead in a place like Mississippi. Johnny thought he was being gracious when he 
agreed with the fellow that Guinness was the best beer in the world.

“What do they drink where you’re from, piss?” Johnny was stunned. “Next thing
you’ll say niggers can’t play football because they’re not allowed to drink water.”
Johnny couldn’t believe his ears. This guy was baiting him; this ass wanted to fight.
He hadn’t even mentioned James Joyce. “Jesus.” And with that, the fellow gave 
Johnny a thrashing. “You’ll not take the Lord’s name in vain, you Yankee cocksucker.”

Michael assumed Johnny’s beating was on account of Joyce, but no. Johnny 
refused to talk about it. The guys set out, stopping as arranged in the tiny 
village of Cong. Michael noticed how Johnny was acting funny but decided 
not to say anything. Besides, he was busy arranging their visit to Cork to attend 
a reading for the poet Trevor Conway, an old acquaintance.

Johnny complained at first about a headache but it soon disappeared. By the time 
they made it to Ballynahinch, he was fit as a fiddle, but Michael noticed from time 
to time that they were getting looks. It hadn’t occurred to either one of them that they 
were assumed to be a couple. Michael thought, geez, that’s all we need. They looked 
nothing like a couple. Michael was barely five feet tall.  Guys called him Shrimpy. 

At last, their driver took them on a wild ride through the Glengesh Pass. Micheal
insisted because he liked the name, Glencolumbcille. Johnny suffered from car sickness; 
his headaches returned and he began to hallucinate. The land was desolate but he swore 
he saw a pack of Dalmatian dogs chasing a red fire truck. At first, there were a dozen, then hundreds. He wept. He sang nursery rhymes at the top of his lungs. He took off his clothes.

They flew into Kennedy and continued from there on Amtrak. They stopped in Memphis
and then on to Jackson. They both lived in Pearl, on opposite sides of town. Johnny’s
wife Ellen picked them up at the station. She invited Michael to stay for supper but he 
was eager to get home. Johnny didn’t say good-bye. He had his shirt off and was waving
it out the window. When Ellen told him to close the window, he asked who she was. 

 

Peace Be with You

Damn, damn, damn, damn.
Ah, Molly, where are you? Surely the facts are not in dispute.

Out there in the icy universe, there is nothing. 
Oh, Molly! Molly? Get out of my mind.

Just slip a suppository into position. Now let science soothe
the troubled rectum. Live by the guts, die by the guts.

Will I be able to get rid of you with a little style, a little panache?
The search for style often results in a want of feeling.

Suddenly, you are not just ageing. You are irrevocably dying.
Hi, diddle-diddy, ta-tum ta-tum ta-tum.

We live in a state of unacknowledged but mutual exhaustion
behind which we scream, silently. Shouldn’t everyone live as if 
they were about to die, not next week, nor next month, but now?

You’re not a husband or son, you’re a goddamn jailer. Eyes 
like marbles. I’d say style is feeling.

I want, I want, I want. I would like…I, I, I , first-person singular.
There we go: the tremors, the warnings.

Once death seemed like the gentlest earthquake of the system, but now
gathering force over the years.

I just thought lying alone in bed that a middle-aged man’s fantasies
are not humiliating, and I will not reject them.

I haven’t been bored with you; self-eliminating, yes.
I’m not a person. I’m a fucking construction. Yours.

After dreams, nothing in waking life can have such intensity.
One thinks: ho hum.

Mugged? Yes, mugged. This city’s definitely falling to pieces.
Nothing can compare with the memories of childhood.

There is a terrific fire across the city. The sky is red for miles.
What do you make of it? What do you make of love?

In the end, I shall call for morphine. I am not heroic, oh, no.
Finally, one loses control of everything.

There, there. That’s better. You look very cool this morning. Very lovely.
What do you think of Bangkok? Palm trees, beaches, that kind of thing?

Damn, damn, damn, damn. Don’t deceive yourself. Death creeps on.
A little more venom, children, a little more violence.

I just thought we could blow each other’s brains out, if we had a gun.
I thought we’d make love, if we had the desire. 

Something must have gone wrong at some early stage. It could be childhood.
Then what is this huge, huge sense of spiritual emptiness?

Death, no problem. Stop. My son, an emotional cripple. Stop. By all means
descend on him. Stop. He is tragically incomplete. He admits no rage.

Yes, when was that first Russian thing – Sput-something – Nik: Sputnik?
I once knew a Victorian. He preferred his pheasant with mint jelly.

Some would say you are your own worst enemy. I’d say you are your only 
best friend. We could drink martinis and pair like lions in the front yard.

One last thing, after this strange and marvelous thing we’ve had. Just leave.
Now, please. With neither kiss nor touch. With my blessing.

 

Preservation Society

If you listen to the history majors at Princeton, you’d assume everyone 
was forced along the Trail of Tears, beginning with Paul Bunyan and
ending with Sophia Loren. Oh, what a horrible life it has been.

What of the Bataan Death March? Was that the Cherokee or the Iroquois?
And where did they go? From Auschwitz to Timbuktu? Or was that
another group? The Buffalo Bills? The Memphis Chicks? Elvis?

I can’t think. I am in despair. I am sunk in woe. I must make application
for a guaranteed income. When will Congress vote to forgive me?
I am consumed with guilt. I am unable to sleep. I am impotent.

The tripling of prices has raised eyebrows across the political spectrums,
emphasizing a dire need for fiscal responsibility in governments. Their 
answer? The $7 million unisex porta-potty designed for Sunshine Week.

I graduated from Stanford $275,000 in debt, the price coincidentally
of my professor’s Bentley convertible. People tell me I deserve loan
forgiveness and my professor advocates for lower taxes. He cares. 

Who said what happened in the past belongs in the past? What nonsense.
The past is all we have. I am waiting for the waiter to declare my meal
on the house. What I hope is for the proprietor to pick up the tab.

I am owed. They told me at school one has to play the cards one is dealt.
What if I have only one? I was given one card to play and my father told
me to hide it up my sleeve. Mother told me to hide it down my pants.

Teacher read to us from Profiles in Courage. I studied the photos of the 
Kennedys and felt instinctively we had nothing in common. I hate the 
idea of being quizzed at the dinner table and I can’t stand football.

My friends are so rich they never talk of anything but money. They are 
always short. They were wisely advised not to make a move. Save. My 
richest friend always says she has no money and doesn’t believe in sharing.

Every sentence at my age begins with “after the funeral.” There is no other.
I am old enough now to no longer know the living. All my family is dead. All
my friends have died. The dead are replaced by strangers. Nice to meet you.

A man has been on my tail from this morning. He is parked outside. He must
be after my newest invention. I have been hoping to be invited back to the White 
House. I received a commendation by mail for my early sketches of the drone.
The president’s wife is on my team. I received three letters of commendation 
for my design of self-generating bamboo forests. This and my effort in turning
my drug-addled students into Pulitzer-prize winning authors.

I demand to have all my debts forgiven. I want social security and personal
freedom. I demand liberty. Hope is faster than light. Light is too slow. Hope
and change are my destiny. I want a refund. I’ve paid a terrible price.