I was standing in a museum
or some rotunda building
on a marble floor
before a statue
fat and towering
over me
the belly obscene
and round and bulging and hanging
I knew was dangerous
so I knew
I must be dreaming
because nothing in this world
could ever be
so fat and menacing
and I couldn’t control
my mind
which was loose
and out of control
and I was facing fat
and danger
and it was in my head
and I didn’t want
a fat head
but what could I do
the statue wasn’t moving
but getting closer
and all my experiences
and attitudes
toward fat
were mixing
like jello gelatinous
and I remembered
because my memory was not asleep
how recently
I had seen
a fat boy
or man
with the belly hanging
over the belt
but even further
and he had a matching
fat behind
that all looked
dangerously
morbidly
obese
and yet again
every thought
that came in
from outside
and mixed
like pudding
with anything
I might have been able
to think I thought
on my own
like sympathy
and empathy
and pity
and admiration
and pride
and togetherness
and astoundedness
at fat
and there was
Dick Gregory
who became
a poster boy
and spent
the last of his life
fighting fat
for his whole race
against submission
because he realized
it may be
a fat fat fat fat world
but there’s a prize
and the end of the race
isn’t the end
and it isn’t a race
and he proved it
that feeding cheap
when all you have
is slave food scraps
left over but unhealthy
and sometimes you can’t help it
because genetics for now
and you take what you’ve got
and love who you are
and your culture
doesn’t have to change
exactly
but can open out
to healthy
because now we can
and it isn’t all
just burgers
and fries and fat
because we all know
where that can lead
even if we’re not asleep
and Teacher Training Classes
I just read about
where you accept everyone
as they are
but should include
teaching ways
to change when you can
but always love who you are
no matter what
and love everyone else
because we’re all
in this together
and not be like the statue
who only loves himself
and I thought of
the dangers
of fat ghosts
that need ghost busters
and fat clowns
for a fat belly laugh
and it isn’t over
‘till the fat lady
and balloons
in parades
fat babies
floating overhead
like inflation
or alien invasion
and that whole history
of dominance
when women invented corsets
to pretend
and even my mother
corseted to conceal
pregnancy before marriage
in a disapproving church
and my poor brother
bound in
too early
reached his limit
too soon
and wrestlers
on the other side of
the round
fat
globe
face off to prove
fat makes might makes right
and even that
is just a sport we watch
and not a way to live
and before me
the statue
that wasn’t made of stone
I thought maybe
was on an altar
with candles lighted
if only I wasn’t dreaming
and could wake up
without the expanding statue
coming into life
to crush me
and suddenly
there was a sword
in my hand
to slash and stab and cut
like a sword of light
against the dark
or a scalpel
to cut open
the fat belly
and remove the cancer
growing and spreading
and my hand was moving
a thrust and slash
and liquid fat
poured out and splashed
over me and the floor
where it covered
and flooded to the walls
I knew it could be washed off
and chunks fell out
of the belly
packages of money
and little machines
controlling wavelengths
broadcasting from all directions
and flickering a flash
then dying into silence
and the statue shape
collapsed upon itself
and left pieces
of unhealthy skin
and fat on the floor
drained into grates
set up ahead of time
for that very purpose
because the architects knew
ahead of time
that this might happen
because they too knew nightmares
and now I forced myself
to be awake
and stay awake
and staggered
into the kitchen
for coffee
and carried my cup
outside
and raised my cup
to salute the sun
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Wondrous nightmare poem, Gary! The poem/dream, of course, is about WAY more than that ominous, dangerous fat man we are again worried about, but the poem as well as the London balloon remind me of the dream I had shortly after Trump won the election. I’ve pasted it below. Quite a coincidence, seems to me! Randy
Trump Dream/Party Dream ’17 Apr. 2nd: I am one of a number of people whom I might or might not know who are in an entourage of stooges, more or less, for Donald Trump. We are shuffled around, eventually out of an airplane and are wondering what we are supposed to do next, as Donald is going about his greetings and passings by of various personages who apparently are more important than he. It seems clear that we are there just for show, to show that some regular people (not rich, not famous) are his people. We don’t feel especially loyal to Trump, just confused, and trying to fit in by doing what the moment calls for, what is expected. Then, we are free for the time, as Donald goes on parade, or something. Anyway, Trump has disappeared, and I make my way along the parade route, crowded and jostled as I go up and down onto grass strips and emerge onto the brink of a grassy knoll. Looking up into the trees and up into the dark blue sky, I see the figure of Donald’s political adversary, male, sort of a lookalike to Barack Obama, appear in giant laser hologram. Immediately, Trump appears and I’m thinking, Oh, no, not this! As the figure of Donald sort of mounts (these figures are balloon like in their inflexibility; they bob rather than contort) the not hostile but victim adversary, there is some loud narration that we all hear, to the effect that Donald is now showing that his adversary is actually gay. The logic is odd, because, if Donald is using himself to show shame his adversary for their mutual orientation, it would mean that Trump also is gay. Everyone I see around me is aghast, some even holding their hands across their faces in disgust, surprise, and dismay. He’s gone too far this time, some say! How can we support him with these shenanigans? Soon, we have arrived at where the limo is, and are ready to sign out from our Donald entourage duties. Some of the people are getting money out of their wallets, including Carol, who is next to me. I say, Do we have to pay? Weren’t we doing him the service. She says yes. I don’t have my check book, and Carol doesn’t have hers. But she has planned ahead, and has the four hundred dollars that we owe, and is beginning to thrust her money forward. I only have perhaps 180 dollars, and am worried that she does not have enough to help me pay my share. Can I just tell the driver that I’ll pay later? That will never do, others tell me. I am worried. Will Donald make me pay for it in the end? Will I lose anything I might have gained from appearing with him? Could I even lose my job? Donald is vindictive. I reason that he should show his magnanimity by paying for us all, but apparently this will not happen.
Yes, Randy, you are a coincidence, and that’s the kind of thing that sustains me now, as it should all of us, as we all need the same things. Love, G.
More That I Left Out
because there’s always more
as science the world and daily living
teach us
so when I said the spilling fat
flooded me from Trump’s opened belly
I should have made explicit
the parallels to sacrament
baptism
and the anointing
with oil
the collapsing structure
because there was no backbone
and the prior waddle
because a calcium-free diet
doesn’t know the value of salad
or anything living
and I apologize
for leaving things out
because I can’t always
come back
to addendum the past
but I’ll keep trying
because there’s always more
until there isn’t