Acédie

Hieronymus Bosch, Acedia, from The Seven Deadly Sins and the Four Last Things

“Of making many books there is no end.”

—Ecclesiastes 12:12 (ca. 970 BCE)

Our forebears did many ingenious things,

Built absurd tombs for absurder

Kings, invented myths that still take

Wing, justified genocide and murder,

Calculated the Earth’s circumference

With only sticks and stones for evidence.

A Gallic chef invented mayonnaise,

Enhancing lunch on tuna-salad days

Miracle Whip in the Great Depression!

But we have lost all sense of proper ways.

Across the board now, art declines confession,

Slinging rancid hash, daring to preen,

Dull, duller, dullest fabulists have been,

And as to painting . . . well, I won't be mean!

For all our cleverness, it would now seem,

Nothing's been so little to human credit

As writing books to inform us of it.

King Solomon, three thousand years ago,

Indited modern literature’s obit,

But held up by its boots, it sinks too slow!

Sure You Do

“Remember the person you thought you were?”

—William Stafford, “Sure You Do”

I found his collected poems,The Way It Is,

In one of those Little Free Library boxes.

Yes, I remember them, those people.

Sure I do! I'd never heard of William Stafford,

But I remember him now, too.

Found things have guided my life—

All our lives. There they are waiting for us.

If we don’t pay attention, we miss them.

This poem didn't turn out the way I thought it would.

History didn't either—what we thought we were.

Every day, something new, the way it is,

You get used to it, like the others.

Note: William Stafford (January 17, 1914–August 28, 1993) might be the best poet you've never heard of, too. No, you can't borrow my copy.

 Saturday, November 22, 2025

Il ritorno di Edipo in patria

Not to be born is, beyond all estimation, best; but when a man has seen the light of day, this is next best by far, that with utmost speed he should go back from where he came.—Sophocles Oedipus at Colonus 1225–28

They thought he liked to stay in bed,

But later found that he was dead.—Savage

If I could but recall from whence I came

I'd go there, but the memory I’ve spent

Has left me metaphorically blind and lame,

Unable to remember where I went.

I recall a white-coated man with shears

In a large room with other babies

Who all of them were wailing bitter tears—

A sharp pain; nurse staunched the bleeding.

And this left me with these PTSD fears,

Which have survived decades of needing.

Anyhow, there’s no good rhyme for maybe’s,

Anyhow, it’s almost time for feeding.

These days I find relief in writing verse.

Something tells me, It could be worse!

But I shall soon be good to go,

But where exactly I don't know.

Perhaps in some strange kingdom in the sky

I’ll meet my prepuce flying by!

There are a million poets in the United States,

All lined up waiting at the Pearly Gates.

Q. Why is the title of this poem in Italian?

A. Fucked if I know!

A note on the Savage epigraph: "This line is a reference to the poem [1924 short story, in fact] "The Most Dangerous Game" by Richard Connell, which explores themes of survival and the human condition. It suggests a deeper narrative about misunderstanding and the consequences of assumptions," the AI research assistant says. Given that Richard Savage died in 1743, and I made up the quotation myself, this analysis of it could scarcely be more revealing!

Friday, November 21, 2025