Very Funny, Mr Mosley
Gone with the Wimp
Dreamed 2009/10/8 by Wayan
for Walter Mosley and Joan of Arcadia
I work for hours on Siphonia, my absurd webtour of Earth with its seas drained. Then hours on our house--clean the empty back bedroom, razor the filthy paint-streaked windows, dust, fix two lights, locate the lost drill & brace the ladder, shampoo the rug...
Health next! Bike to the clinic to get my test results. But they won't release them to me! The doctor sees me briefly at last, says only partial results in, and all negative so far. Why'd they call me and have me come over then, acting so mysterious? Wasted half my afternoon and freaked me out. I go home tired and disgusted.
Evening: I watch six episodes of Joan of Arcadia. Called by God, but she just wants to be normal... a stupid ambition, but God does seem a bit of a stalker. I'd snub him too.
Suzi calls from the basement, fishing to have me come see why she suddenly can't get TV signals. I picture trying to trace the cable over the roof at night and stall her. Feel guilty; may just have been right at her TV. But I'd worked so hard, felt so tired... and intuition says I'll need daylight.
Start Walter Mosley's The Tempest Tales. Different from his usual tough detective stuff. Tempest, murdered, finds himself before Saint Peter. But he won't repent his so-called "sins." Refuses to go to heaven OR hell. Angels and devils gang up on him but he just wants ordinary life. I know the feeling. Come to think of it, it's all Joan of Arcadia wanted too. But folks just push this tired old god-and-devil thing. It's a sad read for me--Mosley's still debunking the same idiotic dualism, the same hierarchies and rules that Mark Twain lampooned a century ago. Haven't we progressed at all? I'm so bored with a world defined by Mideastern faiths! I want out. Like Joan and Tempest, I want out.
I'm trapped in a Walter Mosley tale.
His private eye, an oiled brown muscleman
peels off his shirt in every scene he can.
Naturally, he's voted President. I'm
Late one night, the President wakes
to roam the Black House (for so 'tis
in dark. Shirt? Gone with the Wimp.)
Loyal poodle, I blindly heel. Pectoral Prez
intuits trouble; hence clucks, and sits
at grand pianobench and slowly soweth
a melodic ripple. Led by jazzyhunch, he
climbs into that wooden T Rex maw
to roll on strings like a cat on nip.
I, Poodle, used to spasmodicity
Twang-CRASH! Strings snap, lid slams,
legs do a quake fandango til the floor
rips, gives way. Dust. Dramatic pause.
At last, scraped, bleeding, I claws
out of the pit of splinters, jagged wire--
Jazzombie from a music-grave unburied!
Very funny, Mr. Mosley. Very.
Oops! Now I lie with kindred visionary
Joan of Arcadia, on our basement floor. We
Watch me on TV. Twang-CRASH! The
reception's fine, I just resent it's me:
for I don't get paid like Jackie Chan
to be the Presidential whoopee man.
And I smell smoke. A greasy gray
reeking cloud creeps in the bay
window. Peek but no fire; just bad TV.
Worse! Now our show erupts in God
But in this cult, my President sees
the buff new Bod of God. Its nominee
for a lite-on-guilt divinity (who
I worship, since my Hail Chief do)
is avuncular pipe-puffin' Bob. And we
keep the Devil but call him Harry.
Why? Dualist devils are always Hairy--
Scratch's shaggy shanks, I tell you true,
are but Jehovah's beard gone south: kudzu.
Very funny, Mr. Mosley. Very.
Look, can I wake yet? How long must I
NOTES IN THE MORNING
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