Has my subject been wrung dry By 20th-century novelists—who wonder why A regular guy Halfway through his life would suddenly find that he’s Without belief, adrift? Am I That guy? I don’'t want to be. Still, these Days keep piling up. Once I found myself wiping my face With a washrag in the bathroom mirror, trying to erase The feeling I’d fucked up. Does that count? I haven’t sobbed out loud For 20 years or more. Maybe I should. That scary place at four In the morning, when a crowd Of strangers line up in dreams to accuse you— That’s when things get shaky. Does that amuse you? Can any of us truly locate the unique aching In those nearest to us? Imagine staring At “American Gothic” and seeing a startling Truth about a man and wife Behind the pitchfork and grim expressions, like a palette knife That scrapes you. Here we are Like any couple, driving in our car To some friends’ house for dinner. Conversation slows. On Sirius, the CNN shows Bark out the latest snafus. Every moment Thrums with wariness, a foment Of ideas assembled, piece by piece, on short notice. The headlights scoop a tunnel Between the snowy mounds. We pull Into the driveway, kill the engine. Below the surface, Nothing’s happened; everything’s happened. Language fails. The End.
We open on a normal American living room. Family photos lined up on the mantle, a Purple Heart In its frame. But then we zoom Closer. Splashed across the wall, like abstract art, A bloody splatter. You wonder what’s the matter. A kill team from an unnamed Mideast state Has slipped into the U.S. To search for sleeper cells, who secretly await Activation. It’s them not us. What a TV fantasy. You’re asked to imagine A mushroom cloud Blooming over New York City, as Cheney did in Pushing for the war in Iraq. Or that a crowd Of desperate refugees From seven banned Muslim countries Could pose an existential danger. They could be in your neighborhood, that stranger On the bus. They could be anywhere. They’re the stuff of nightmare. You let them in, whoever they are, And see what happens? We carry the scar Of every awful thing that has ever gone wrong. Like a film reel, there’s a long Shot of people running away, another boom Then puffs of smoke, sirens as Helicopters hover. Then it’s over. There’s room For tearful pleas, silences. Cut to the president, who darkly cites, “People pouring in. Bad!” You think, Maybe it’s better for cities To err on safety’s side. What if only a few turn bad? What if there’s a ticking time bomb And they’ve just taken Your child? What then? Should questioning be a balm While you look on, helpless, forsaken? Be nice, and be a day too late? Or should we use force: Let’s make American mean again, a farce Of primal fears. Wouldn’t that be great?
For Max B., whose lifelong exile From Germany, his native country, ended while He was crossing Central Park West At 69th St., on December 27, 1950, to see his latest “Self-Portrait” at the Met. (At 66, a heart attack felled him on the street.) In almost every one, a cigarette Jabs out at us, as he contemplates a secret. Max, what is it? Some vestiges of Paris or Berlin, the twilit Faces, like death-masks, at a cocktail party? The earth Swerves under them. Five years later, my birth. Now I’m five years younger Than when Max died. Five years, and I wonder What comes next. I can feel Max’s restlessness At the Plaza and St. Regis Hotel bars, his favorite haunts. Alone, he’d sketch The ruddy patrons, their scowls. Everyone’s unhappy, everyone needs to retch From the bottom of their souls. In New York, in a bar, I love the space Between my glass and the mirror. I see my face That’s older, closer to my father: Glasses, jowls, a bristle of gray hair. I gather Data in a one-to-one survey. I’m at the Met today To see Max, and to ask him how it feels To live apart. Is it as real as His other life a lifetime ago, the grimy Weimar dives Where he was king? How many lives Do we each get? At the Met Max glares back at me in his blue jacket.
In the new Lego Batman movie, Batman Reveals his deepest fear: To be alone. I get that, man. And what’s his secret desire? It’s clear: To be part of a family again. And though I’m me— Not a cartoon of a multicolored Plastic toy that’s based on a comic book—it could be argued We share a history. There’s the picture of his mom and dad, who were shot In a mugging, on the wall of Wayne Mansion. No amount of lobster thermidor, nuked and eaten Late at night, can undo the thought Of what happened. Nor can watching reruns of Jerry Maguire Complete him, or the Batcave’s shiny gizmos, or his sleek black attire. So why does Batman push away Those who get too close: Robin, Alfred, a whole array Of supervillains, including the Joker, who so Wants to be his prime archenemy—his evil bro. Does Gotham City, after crisis upon crisis, Suffer an outrage fatigue? Is there a past to miss? I remember Sargent’s poignant Oil painting, “The Daughters of Edward Boit.” How a hundred years ago, the four girls in the front hall Dawdled beside the tall blue vases. How all Of them—mother, father, the girls, Sargent—are gone. Down in Texarkana, at 94, my mom keeps on. Her house in Illinois, our family address For four generations, sits vacant, the yard a mess.
It’s hard to keep up with each new disaster. They just keep coming, faster and faster. What’s the last error? Take your pick. A phone call here, a phone call there, the tick tock tick Of hourly disgraces. Hanging up On the Australian PM, threatening the Mexican Pres. With sending in U.S. troops to round up All the “bad hombres” Jesus, hit pause. There’s no time to get nostalgic For last week’s gaffe: using the CIA’s wall of heroes As a backdrop for a narcissistic CV: number of Time covers, despite the media ho’s. Never mind the farcical rollout Of the ban that’s not a ban, the national fallout From nominees whose nominal expertise is close to nil. Timeout for a photo-op. See the sparkly Harley cycle On the White House lawn? See the president’s tie, so red and long, As he strides down the East Room’s carpet To announce his latest get? It’s hard to come up with enough quick rhymes For the worst of times. What’s to be done? Another rally? An online petition? Post more angry poems? Acts of sedition? This just in: the Sixties you missed Are back, from UC Berkeley to DC, and they’re wicked pissed.
Gary Duehr has taught poetry and writing for institutions including Boston University, Lesley University, and Tufts University. His MFA is from the University of Iowa Writers Workshop. In 2001 he received an NEA Poetry Fellowship, and he has also received grants and fellowships from the Massachusetts Cultural Council, the LEF Foundation, and the Rockefeller Foundation. Journals in which his poems have appeared include Agni, American Literary Review, Chiron Review, Cottonwood, Hawaii Review, Hotel Amerika, Iowa Review, North American Review, and Southern Poetry Review. His books of poetry include In Passing (Grisaille Press, 2011), THE BIG BOOK OF WHY (Cobble Hill Books, 2008), Winter Light (Four Way Books, 1999) and Where Everyone Is Going To (St. Andrews College Press, 1999). You can find out more about Duehr, his poetry and his public art, at: www.garyduehr.com.