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It wasn’t his fault that Uncle History fell down a well

He was in Sweden where lots of people fall into holes

He was in a utopian mood, trying to imagine a better future

No more epidemics, children fed, etc.

He even hummed a little tune—something insipid

But possibly catchy, the song

Of a traveling salesman maybe

And that’s when he tumbled

“This is not my fault” he said

It was an old well

An abandoned farm

The water waist deep

He repeated “not my fault”

Even so, he wasn’t alone

A white eel swam around his toes

It had been in the well its whole life

It was blind

“This is a metaphor for everything” he thought

When he realized he couldn’t get out

He shouted—aiming his voice up

At a sky colored hole

“This is the invention of prayer” he thought

How he got out we’ll never know

It wasn’t much at first—

Something like a post horn 

Sounding from a distance

Uncle History’s conscience

It wasn’t much

A slightest breeze 

In his hair

A haunted house feeling

Dead leaves at his feet

“I’ve got to get out of this racket”

(He writes an old fashioned telegram)

“Facts soaked in blood” Stop

“Still feel good at heart” Stop

“Want good, hard unpolitical tears” Stop

“Will you rescue me?” Stop

He looks down 

Sees his cord has been cut

Uncle History puts his toe in the river
Like most rivers “his”
Heads to sea
Tides rise and fall
He knows what’s going on
All from the piggy who goes to market
He’s sort of like a blind person
Who knows what the fuck’s going on
Because he’s smart
His toes are sharp
The river carries a vow
He hears it through his feet
It’s not unlike the song
Of the snake—
Not unlike
Means both rare
And familiar
Incoming message through toe:
Come closer

My friend is out of the office
His automatic reply ziths to my inbox
Of course Shakespeare wouldn’t know
What this means
But tragedy is failed communication
I was going to give my pal
A hundred bucks
But not now
He’s out of the office
And as my grandmother
Used to say:
“I’d rather owe it to you
Than cheat you out of it”

Night comes, and with it
The atavistic neuroses—
Do the gods love me
What hides behind the moon
I play solitaire
While my Victrola
Plays zarzuela
“C’mon nature,
Tell me you see me”
And yes I think
I’m onto something

As if he’s having surgery
Uncle History counts backwards
But there are no doctors
Just crows on the lawn
And before him a book on prosthesis
Men without noses, etc.
Why is he counting down?
The atrocities never end
No feel good movie can help
Nine, eight
In his mind he sees
Furniture—empire sofas
Ghastly armoires
Seven, six
If only he can make
All that Louis the whatever
Go away
Then at last
The children will be safe
But he has to hurry
He sees Tycho Brahe
With a hole in his face
Freud hiding
Under a couch
And time is running out
For domestic magic

“No one has it as bad as you”
(Uncle History at his mirror
Clutching a razor)
Dust motes in sunbeams
Odd plumbing noises in the walls
He thinks of Rousseau
Who had trouble
With his nether parts
And reckons
Jean Jacques likely
Had it worse
So he decides to shave

We call it: “what’s on your mind?”
But there is no mind—only a spindly
Mushroom with threads
A gelatinous timid clock—
Everyone has one…

Aunt and Uncle History are playing
Dictator Monopoly—
Instead of streets
They have countries
Rawanda, Cambodia,
Soviet Union
There’s plenty of space
Germany, Chile,
North Korea
Ye Olde Yugoslavia
They roll the dice
Aunt History lands on Trumpistan
They both laugh
She has a “get out of jail free” card
“That was a close one,” she says
“Better wash your hands,” Uncle says
“You don’t know where that card has been…”

“You can go around the barn” says Aunt History
“Cows will watch you
But with minimal curiosity
Most people are cow-like
Even a cat has more
On the ball
Than your neighbor”
She’s in a mean mood
Cow neighbors
Chewing
Looking up
From chewing