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A HOUSE IN PUERTO ESCONDIDO | BLACK BUTTERFLIES | NIGHT LIFE (2009) | PUERTO ESCONDIDO AND BEYOND | VIGNETTES | IF IT WERENīT FOR SEX

OBJECTS IN THE REAR VIEW MIRROR (2005) | THINGS I DONīT REMEMBER (1989)| BARBARA JOAN SCHAFFER | EL SOL DE LA COSTA (2009)


BLACK BUTTERFLIES


Night strikes the flint of dawn.
Tropical mornings come on fast;
no rosy-fingered foreplay here.
Alone in the bus station waiting-room,
eyes fixed on a plate-glass window of darkness,
I suddenly see the chain-link fence
and houses already announced by the cocks' crowing.
When he stepped off that bus,
I stumbled into his rage
like those enormous black butterflies
that smack you blindly in the face.

Barbara Joan Schaffer




JONESTOWN

I dreamed I was in Jonestown, a week before
They drank the Kool-aid
But that was years ago
And my friend Jo-Jo
Was telling me he'd lived there
For two years, didn't I remember?

No, I didn't. He said that was when I lived in Buenos Aires,
That we left Guyana and Argentina the same year.
He said he had a boyfriend there.
And then he took me back
To Jonestown, a week before
They drank the Kool-aid,
But not Jo-Jo because he was not
There then.

We leave the compound together
Walking on the rutted path, hot and sweaty.
Villagers squat on the road side
Selling fruit drinks
to the foreign passers-by.
Then a herd of cattle crosses the road:
Short black furry cows, with small sharp horns
Pointed forward.
Still waiting for them to break ranks,
I awake.

Jo-Jo is long dead
And never in Guyana.
Leo Ryan's daughter joined one cult
And Lisa Reuther joined another
After her parents' plane went down.
But in the dream we were safe
From the proximate future.
I open my eyes to sunshine
Safe in my bed, and then
The ceiling starts to spin
Like a game disk or wheel of fortune,
While I wait for the day to decide
Which way it is going.

Barbara Joan Schaffer




REALITY USURPED FROM A DREAM

Reality usurped from a dream
Left me speechless
Not knowing my role
I missed the cues
You drifted off into the fog.

Everyday the distance between
What I believe and what I know to be
Widens as I dangle from jungly vines
And spider webs and leap
Over drowning streams of intuition.

Lovers lost to madness,
Fragments of a dream comparted
Brilliant shards of broken glass
Showing through your eyes
Like lightening without rain.

Then! Now! the startled entrance to a kiss.
Reality usurped from dreams.

Barbara Joan Schaffer





LEDA & MARIA

When you a fuck a god there are
No relationship issues
Except for the kids
Who feel oddly entitled.

The surrogate dads don't complain
And the moms just smile
When the topic comes up.
The mischief's been done
It's out of their hands.

Troy, Rome, whatever,
Falls outside of human error.

Barbara Joan Schaffer



     

 

GOD IN THE GARDEN

I am God.

The ants damn near better believe it. They build their towers, perfect circular mounds, and I flood them. But some escape with their Torah or whatever codes they carry to construct another identical edifice a few feet from the last. And I don’t even care one way or the other if some tribe should flourish - as long as it’s not in my backyard. In fact, they do me no harm, except a gardener once told me that they are the harbingers of the truly evil. I fear the leaf cutting ants.

I am God, and the trees I planted are my chosen people. I rain pellets of manna on them and rivers of sweet water. One day I will be gone, but by then their roots will be deep, their fruit and shade much admired, and they will not need me. I am the God they will say never existed except in myth, for after all there were trees before their were gardens; but they are ungainly titans and we do not share our seeds with them.

I am your God but not the God of the wilderness across the street which is truly godless. Nor am I the God of my neighbor’s lot, which is why there is a wall between us.

I say I am God, but the adepts know me as the demiurge or whatever the word for plant maker is in Greek. My masters are as caring and capricious as yours. Remember that! you weeds who think you can just take over because I’ve turned my back.

If I am not God, at the very least I am a tyrant, a fascist, a rabid xenophobic nationalist. I have laid out monumental brick walkways as a testament to my powers. I have put up bougainvilleas and chayas to reinforce the fence. They say there are snakes and scorpions in the wilderness across the street. I speak of that undeveloped lot whose owner does nothing to maintain. I’ve heard he has a machine, but that a blade broke and he had to send away for the missing part. Hasn’t he heard of alternative technologies: men with machetes, goats, cows? Yes, I have seen cows brought in to graze on empty lots.

There is an immigrant watermelon vine growing in my garden between the papaya and bananas. I am not making this up. Of course, I will let it stay. And yes, I wonder what other marvels I am rooting out when I weed. But my garden is a planned, gated community and one can’t take chances and weeds will take over if given the chance. Please, do not tell me that what I call weeds are actually natives; some are, some aren’t. I’m not a botanist; how would I know? Not that it would matter.

The birds fly into my garden from the wilderness across the street. I like birds, but I fear avian flu. Still the birds are OK by me, except if there’s an eagle with a snake in its mouth.

Barbara Joan Schaffer