I Know Why the Davis Sings

This poem was inspired by my time in Russia, working under the yoke of the repressive Russian Baptist Church.

After months of tirelessly serving the Baptists, they surprised me and Grant by sending us an email listing all the things about us that they disapproved of. (The list of sins included "playing Solitaire on our laptop", playing cards being verboten in the Russian Baptist cosmos.) Oddly enough, in the letter of condemnation, the Baptist Grand Dragon mistakenly wrote my name as "Davis" three times in a row, for no apparent reason.

Thus sparking a poem on the divided nature of my soul in 2004, as I tried to be a missionary.

My apologies to Maya Angelou.

* * * *

I KNOW WHY THE DAVIS SINGS

The David leaps

On the back of the wind

And floats downstream

‘til the current ends

And dips his cup

In the keg of beer

And dares to drink it dry.

But the Davis stalks

Down his Baptist cage,

Condemned by pastors

Thrice his age,

Accused of sins

Which Betty Page

Would shy from at her wildest.

The Davis dreams

Of a different world

Where flags of joy

And peace unfurl

And Baptists cannot

Make him hurl

By curtailing his freedom.

The David pees

Into the breeze

And stands and laughs

Amidst the trees

The backsplash

Matters not to he,

For the David has his freedom.

But the Davis chafes

At legalist rules

Imposed by

Sanctimonious fools

And silently screams

At Baptists tools…

For the Davis longs for freedom.

Turning Thirty

A poem about the follies of youth...and about learning to age gracefully.

* * *

Turning Thirty

I

see

a callow college junior

doing everything she can

to keep a full-time job

and sing on stage

and see if she can land

a major scholarship

by taking twenty units at a time

and sleeping two hours a night

and

I

thank

God

I’m turning thirty.

I

see

her youthful, bleary eyes

that fight like Hell to blink back sleep

which she denies herself

because she read online

that she could keep

herself alive with five REM cycles

of ten minutes each per day

and so she fights the laws of Nature

and

I

thank

God

I’m turning thirty.

I

see

the twenty-one year old

who saunters by and turns their heads

with her impossibly taut body

and sure, her flirting may have led

one of these furtive admirers

to think that she was interested

but she just laughs and struts along

and

I

thank

God

I’m turning thirty.

I

see

a world prostrate itself

before her youth, I watch her bask

in the warm glow

of adulation

and yet she never stops to ask

if it will be like this forever,

if time will also stop to bow

before her as she passes by

and

I

thank

God

I’m turning thirty…

I

see

a kilogram of silicone,

a silent sentinel

that stands abruptly at attention

and announces to the world,

“Behold! This forty year old woman

is still highly fuckable!”

as she lasciviously sips her tea

and

I

thank

God

I’m turning thirty

I

see

her makeup caked on, yellow

like Saddam’s uranium

her Prada bag is full of birth

control devices, and her son

is graduating from high school

this year, but still she soldiers on

to perpetual adolescence

and

I

thank

God

I’m turning thirty.

I

see

the Orange County housewives

on the plasma TV screen

insisting they’re still young enough

to primp and fuss and whine and scream

their glassy eyes have all the seeming

of a demon’s who’s been dreaming

of when it was still sixteen

and

I

thank

God

I’m turning thirty.