The Pause Poem of Cause

The Pause Poem of Cause
In the name of humor, holocausts and huevos
by Richard Martin Oxman

Glassing the forest afar
Passing some oaks in the car

“Why are you wanting to stop here, dear?”
[Pause.]
Those trees are calling to me
I aim to call back, to let them know I want to connect.

“Yo, Oaks!”
[Silence on the roadside, less sound from the wooded canyon backdrop.]

“Y’oaks!”
[Pause.]

“Y’oaks, com’ere, hug me! Or I’m gonna hug you.”

[Long pause.]

“My goodness, dear, what are those?”

[Pause.]

“Eggs, thousands of eggs!”

Silly of me. But everyone likes to have fun.

That’s why we have movies.

[Pause.]

But ‘ya gotta draw the line somewhere.

Look at some of the great Yeats’ lines from The Man And The Echo:

I lie awake night after night
And never get the answers right.
Did that play of mine send out
Certain men the English shot?
Did words of mine put too great strain
On that woman’s reeling brain?
Could my spoken words have checked
That whereby a house lay wrecked?

Our well-intentioned celebrities, today’s royalty… they have a responsibility. To self-reflect along the lines that William Butler Yeats did (above) near the end of his life.

To not just take any role. Not just embrace any cause without pausing to study the details. To not put career above principle… like a lying politician. I mean look what Matt Damon did — the horror he created — by agreeing to be in that Clint Eastwood abomination, Invictus. [Pause.] And Matt’s supposedly one of the good guys, heart in a healthy place. Well-meaning.

I won’t even comment on what ignorance was compounded with what ignorance, what crap was encouraged by Angelina’s husband putting his imprimatur on Tarantino revenge tragedy, or the Queen herself… making blood flow on screen. What misinformation was spread vis-a-vis Blood Diamond. What real (third) world blood is shed from such shit. Or what comes down from the simple act of our royalty wearing glitter… to those many functions. And so on. And so on. Ad infinitum.

It may be that mostly everyone in that realm isn’t as intentionally self-serving as, say, Bono. Who knows? Regardless, George Clooney is ignorant. Bruce Springsteen is stupid. There is a difference. [Pause.] This U.S.A. is rotten to the core. It didn’t just take a wrong turn recently. And entertainers are the mere tip of our titanic troubles.[Pause.] We must crack something open. Without pause?

Think of me as one of those eggs who just came up onto the roadside to greet you, thinking you were calling me… from the depths of your three-o’clock-in-the-morning soul.

Take some time, if you will, to pause over the pure flowered omelette I have served up.

I have cause to be concerned, not silly. To not pause any longer.

Contact me, if you will, at tosca.2010@yahoo.com. Me, Richard, The Good Egg, passing bell for the hymen of the soul (as per Yeats’ ringers in the tower). We don’t need numbers. We don’t need big names. The usual stuff need not apply. Isn’t the magic of thousands of eggs appearing out of nowhere enough? [Documentation for the above, upon request.]