Like a fly on a computer screen

by Jen Hunt, from the archives

At birth we arrive in the midst of the scene, like a fly on a computer screen, not knowing how we got there or what went on before. It takes years to uncover the history leading up to our arrival. Like amateur archeologists we dig through layers of silt that go yards, even miles, beneath us, where silt has been accumulating for centuries. We look for bones and pottery shards which verify our independent slant on reality. Sometimes we like what we find. Sometimes we don't. But the digging is imperative.
A grandfather and grandmother, divorced when you were two, will seem to you at first like separate trees planted in different forests in eternity past. But then... a portrait here... a yellowed marriage certificate there... and conceptions shift. Suddenly your eyes move down those separate trees to find (no!) a single burled and knotted trunk. So you discover again or maybe for the first time we are born into a world of aging, hurtful people, who's quarter of phone time is nearly spent who sense they won't be able to say it all before the line dies.
A buttermilk marriage sat souring for thirty-five years before being spit out. Two generations behind me a fortress gate thundered shut while I sat laughing on a pony-ride lap. Silt muffled, then buried, the thunder. I arrived on the site thinking all is well, all is well.
Until I was handed a shovel.

You’re Invited to a “stained patio” jam

We’ve finished our deck; the staining’s done
So what the heck---let’s have some fun!
You’ve endured power washer and sander din
Now it’s time for a toast to the deck nightmare’s “fin’”

snacks, drinks and yard games, music and more
Is our way of hailing the end of that chore.
(If you’re really curious, perhaps we’ll disclose
The spots squirrels chewed in corn-on-cob rows.)
Stop by if you’re able; stay if you can
For our simple and low-pressure “Stained Patio Jam”

Date: TODAY! Friday, August 24th (apologies for the late notice)
Time: 6:27–ish until the bugs get the upper hand
Place: The Hunts’ backyard (duh!)
840 Basel Street

Just bring yourself. No need to RSVP.
Just an informal chance to hang out
before school year craziness begins

Spotting the TV Stand at De Pere Christian Outreach Three Days before Christmas

By Jen Hunt

As you dashed to the thrift store

You prayed the bin of

Packaged Rudolph noses

Spied on your last visit

Would still be there

Which was quite honestly your only mission

Going in

The stand to house

The 40” Flat Screen

Purchased on Thanksgiving

Was not on the list

At least not

Here

Your living room deserved better

(Chimney stockings

Another matter)

When Lo! an obscure chest

Catches your eye

Its top drawer adorned

With peeling decoupage

A Depression child’s dresser

You suppose

Its tongue-in-grove seams                                                  

Promise pure wood

Under the grooves

But your route to a closer look remains blocked

--As misfortune would have it--

By a stout glass-topped piece

At knee height

Or was it fortune?

Because when you turned

To move the obstacle

What did you spy in the opposite corner

But a frayed but honest stand

Marked “$15 NEW”

Probably a Shopko store sample

Bruised by the coil of humanity

Pushing shopping carts

And eyeing specials

On Black Friday

You surmised

You rushed to the fading grayed teller

In the red Penguin sweats

To ask to mark it SOLD

Which she did

With great pity

“It says NEW here, ya know

But I can tell you it ain’t

See all them scratches?”

She warned

And you had

It is quite possible

You yourself had

Already passed the table weeks before

Telling yourself smugly how

It wouldn’t do

The stain was too light

The surface too marred

And weren’t you proud you had finally learned from the foul

Water-stained number disgracing your den

Of which you might never be rid that

You only get what you pay for

The stand may or may not fit in your van

Parked on freshly-lined asphalt just outside

Good thing the kids were still at school

For now

So the back seats could go down

But fit it did

It was 1:00

Your boys have a way of spotting cast-offs

Ten miles out

And snubbing their noses

Like a mother bird smelling on her chick

Human scent

But if you can get the cargo into your living room

Primped and clean

Before the kids return at three

There’s a chance

It will be accepted

(That would take a miracle)

Perhaps the tint is too orange you wonder

As you jostle

Your catch into the daylight

 “Nothing a little touch up

Pen can’t fix” you say

Pointing to the

Hideous scratches swathing its form

The volunteer retiree

Carrying the end opposite

Nods half-heartedly

Unconvinced it can avoid

Next week’s trash bin

No time to lose

You lug it alone

To the den

Loud bangs all down the hall as you go

Before charging your

Wood de-marker marker

With the impossible task

Of making the thing tagged NEW

Look the part

Maybe one hour

Of frenzied scribbles and burnishings

And a tap or two of polish later

And you will re-right yourself and stare

In awe

Unsure quite how

Like a Charlie Brown tree

Your stand has transformed itself

While your nose was down

You believe

Were you to add ten zeros to the tag

And wait at the door for their arrival

Once they spotted

The stand

In the corner of the living room

Your sons

Would be unfazed

At the price

Christmas Eve will come in two days

And you will place the stand

Beneath your new flat screen

And weep the tears

Of the generous,  the wise and

The unworthy all at once

To have come on such an unlikely gem

For so cheap

A bit like Mary in the stable

So long ago

As she thought of what took place

When she hadn’t been looking

And all that was born

On her knees

Yes

Your sons will have good news to tell their friends this year

You hope

As you round the last round-about

Home

Waiting for a 40” Inch Flat Screen at Wal-Mart on the Night of Thanksgiving Day

 By Jen Hunt

You are thankful

It is warmer

Than years past

So warm

You could leave your coat

In the van

Parked in the shuttered store’s lot

Across the road

Though it’s dark

You can be forgiven

The morning nod

You gave the yellow-vests

Flanking the doors

Like Sunday’s ushers

At nine you snagged the tail of

The flat screen line

And once in, there was

No exit

From time to time

Checking your pocket

For the tiny paper

Proving you  yes  you belonged

In the Doorbuster Book of Life

You heard the mad howls at ten

When the pallet of PS3 games was

Torn open and

Emptied in five minutes

Thinking how tame the food lines

In Somalia

Pressed your sons closer and

Tried to balance

Atop the toilet roll bundle

Bracing your frame

The hours they seemed

Interminable

At eleven you gazed

Past the ant trap aisle

Toward the arc of humanity

Pushing carts

And scanning circulars

“On my way back from

The restroom found DVD’s for two dollars

Got my sister taken care of

Get one for you if you like?”

Offered one gold-goateed comrade

Before confessing

He digs his girlfriend’s mom

You can be forgiven for

Missing laptop spoils

Because you did in fact

Eat turkey on Thanksgiving Day

You can be forgiven for twice

Losing your offspring in the crowd

Forgiven for offering them cured

Beef snacks from a baggie

Right there on the floor

It is not even midnight

Your yams have not digested

It will be some time

Before the countdown to twelve

Amid New Years-esque chants

Before the midnight queue

When the woman in the black burka

At the back of the store

Will complete your sale

Once the phone lines are back up

And the competitor ads have been tallied

And don’t forget

The last line you will take outside

In the dark

Around back

When a boy hauls the large box

To your trunk

Warning you to 

Warm the chilled contents

One hour before use

Tomorrow the sun will rise

On you

And your box

Then you must arrange your den

To fit it

Find a stand

To bear it

And a cloth

To cover it

Until Christ’s Birth Day

Surely your sons

Will have good news to tell their friends this year

You hope

As you sit on your bundle

And wait

On Thanksgiving Day

Elegy to a Glove

Joint Compostion June 29, 2010 by Spring Lake Church's Write Path
based on Degas' painting "Woman with Chrysanthemums"

Mother, I have lost my left-hand glove

Again. If I ever find it

I shall throw it down as a gauntlet

On your grave

I am through with

The nauseating, gaudy things

You made me wear

How often you called me

Naughty Kitten. Naughty Kitten? 

I scorn the pugnacious din

Gathered in this lobby

For your dirge. I want to purge

You here in the drab, dark, musty

Death parlor where you lie

Beneath crysanthemums and misery. 

(The mother which emerged from this group-generated poem bears no resemblance to my own, wonderful mom, thankfully!)

A Rap On John 4

By Jen and Calvin Hunt

Jesus goes to a Samaritan well

(Which most Jews wouldn’t find so swell)

He asks the lady who draws at noon

For help to wet his whistle soon.

He says “Hey, there, woman, before you go

I sure would like some H ₂ O.

In return I’ll give you living water

That satisfies like nothing other.

“The drink I got doesn’t come from a spout

But it can change you from the inside out.

So, get your husband and come back

Then I can give you the thing you lack.”

“Sir,” she said, “I’ve got no spouse,”

(Failing to cite her live-in louse.)

“Right you are! That’s why I asked,

I’m all over your five-groom past.”

Well, she’s quite impressed by his prophetic powers,

But the conversation’s going sour

So she shifts to something less risqué

Like, “On which mountain should I pray?”

Jesus replies, “All hills fare the same,

Spirit and truth are the name of God’s game.”

Now she’s sure he’s the real McCoy

Who won’t treat her heart like a toy.

So she leaves her jar and runs to town

To give all her critics the honest low-down:

“Jesus knows everything, that’s a fact!

If you want the Messiah, just follow me back!”

Of Gum and Shrimp and Machu Picchu*

After his four day adventure on the trail of Machu Picchu

Joseph returns to the hotel in preparation for his return flight.

He drops his pack

Props his feet

Finds a piece of gum

Turns on the TV

Spies some American cartoon featuring a smoking baby 

Subtitled in Spanish

This reminds Joseph

Of the figurines at the museum at the base camp

And of the archeologist’s lectures

About these people who sacrificed grown children

Here and there along the mountain trade routes

Before DO NOT LITTER signs

Littered the trail 

Way back

Before wrong had existed

Before wrong disappeared

As he watches the baby

Joseph rests his head on his hand

Leans into the loveseat

Relieved--

Thank god I come from civilized people

Who do not sacrifice children

On mountains

To make the gods happy

Or make things better for the rest of us

His feet throb

He could never have reached Machu Picchu
Were it not for his sherpa

The Dead Woman’s Pass would have been the end of him

Near the end of the show
His gum unflavors
So he swears and spits it out
This gum no bigger than

An embryo

Or last night’s shrimp

Carried to the top of the Machu Picchu on his sherpa’s back

Gum that has lost its taste is

No longer gum

You can and should discard it

Recumbent, Joseph rolls his eyes back and remembers

The way his hands felt

Against the firm stone walls

Remembers the stones put together tightly

Stones carried long distances uphill

Stones carried without wheels

No space between them for so much as a fingernail

How was this done

Before paper? Before lasers? Before autocad?

He wonders

Feeling a little smaller
Almost as small as the gum he just spit

The drone of the cartoon of the smoking baby

Coupled with his own sore limbs

So tire Joseph that he begins to sleep and dream

Whether or not he had a nightmare

He will decide when he awakes

From inside the television

A woman stares

Into the core of Joseph's soul

As one might stare into the face of a cleft-lipped child
Both pitied and adored

No, you do not sacrifice children on mountains in the daytime

Instead you take little melon scoops out of your face
In the dark

I can see the pock marks on your face

Tiny gum-sized divets

Where the parts you threw away used to fill

And now you are so dimple-filled

Your skin is like a golf ball’s

The melon rind is all that is left of you

It is a wonder someone has not throw you out
If they could find

A tall enough mountain

Or big enough trash can

Joseph, still dreaming, and wishing he had an earlier flight
Brushes his cheek with his fingers then

Raises his arms, his voice in defense

You must be mistaken
My face is smooth as marble

I come from a civilized people

We do not sacrifice children

On mountains

To make the gods happy

Or make things better for the rest of us

And the woman answers Joseph
Again, from the screen into his soul

No
You do not sacrifice them on mountains--

You do that

In hospitals

And alleyways

Where the cans are

And the gods

Are not

*This poem was written in honor of Sanctity of Human Life Sunday.