20161023 (empathy)

As to whether Dump would accept the results of the election, "I'll keep you in suspense."

When I requested an allowance 

My father told me, “Shine my

Shoes.” He put no store by teens

Getting financial aid by dint

Of age alone. Clothing, food, 

And a roof over my head for the

Projected eighteen years of  

Minority seemed burden

Enough. He quickly retold of 

His own youth that the family

Expected him as a sixteen year 

Old to get a full-time job. If

He wished to stay in the home

He’d have to turn his entire 

Wages over to his mom for

Meals and a bed to sleep in. 

I wasn’t going to be treated 

Like the spoiled rich who 

Dipped their hands in some 

Free flowing stream of bills 

And coins to scoop as much as

They wished. Our place in the 

System was to produce goods 

Or services and demand what

The market would bear. I never

Got an allowance but I was

Allowed to keep all I earned, to

Deposit it in a savings account.

Money for movies or social

Goings out had to be cribbed

From the savings stash. Still

I had to polish my father’s

Shoes which I openly resented

Because no allowance followed.

Sticking my left hand inside 

I felt the crude bumps from

The bones of his feet, the smell,

Which oddly were unnoticeable

When I polished my own. Other

Chores were expected too, not

Spelled out in a published list, 

Limited to these obligations

And no others. Sadly my verbal

Contract consisted mostly of “and

Other duties as assigned.” I

Presume most of us grew up 

Under similar conditions and

Easily identified the thrust 

Of Bob Dylan’s “You Gotta

Serve Somebody.” Maybe that’s

What was missing in Dump’s 

Upbringing to make him the 

Sociopath he is today. He didn’t

Have to polish his dad’s shoes,

Or his own. As for serving 

Somebody—fuggedabodit! 

Today neurologists report they

Can see the empathetic regions

Of the brain scintillate in FMRIs

Of normals while those of narcissists

Stay dark as doom. All is not lost, 

They caution: plasticity allows 

For retraining the brain. Perhaps

In Dump’s youth there was an 

Optimal time for his gyri to 

Respond to the feelings of others

But those lessons were forgone

Because of their wealth. He sailed

On, never troubling those waters. 

His behavior now is limited 

To those practices which

Earlier proved successful—

Whining, bullying, grabbing. 

If only his parents had asked

Him, “Donny, would you 

Want other people to treat 

You the way you just treated

That other little kid?” Then his

Gyri might have sparked to life

To help him become a real boy.

c. 2016, J.S.Manista

20161006 (itch)

It's right about there under the S of Scapula on the drawing that is the unscratchable zone responsible for some of our most agonizing and agonizingly pleasant moments

Do all bugs go to some school

To learn exactly where to bite

To transmit perpetual itch, that

Square inch of the scapula hands

Cannot deftly reach and soothe,

Where even rubbing up against

A coarse grinding wheel will not

Relieve us of their histaminic

Excess? We, alone, can get near

But never spot on to ease a bit

The throbbing sting. I muse God

Foresaw this limitation in his 

Creature and thought to give

Him a help mate with fingernails

And sufficient understanding to

Follow simple directions such

As, “No, over to the right, and 

Up. Yeeeaaah! That’s it.” With 

This simple wisdom of touch 

The Divine allowed they would 

Extend these directions to 

Other forms of touching 

With which to smooth

Their intimate moments into 

The very opposite of sting.

Fully cognizant of who gave 

Them this guidance the pair

Would recognize at the 

Summits of their joy with an

Intense and breathy, “Oh, God!

Oh, God! Oh, God!”  Even if 

Centuries later his children

Came to doubts, they would

Still be genetically predisposed

To that primordial cry.

c. J.S.Manista, 2016

20161005 (city)

Walking the High Line, a gardened walkway built on the tracks of the elevated running along the edge of the city, in SW Manhattan

Autumn in New York is ideal

But they mean autumn in

Manhattan, years ago when 

Branches of the trees heavily 

Laden with orange and red 

Leaves bowed over sidewalks

And boulevards. Caught just

A bit of that walking the High 

Line back to 23rd Saturday

Afternoon from the renewed

Whitney with Emily and Ben

Who live in Chelsea half a

Block from where a cooker

Bomb took out a dumpster on

The next street over. That city

Is still a pedestrian’s paradise:

Looking up to scan the variety

Of cornice crests, the front face

Grates of iron escapes, the 

Flowers in windows grasping

Their few hours of sunlight,

The curtains, blinds, arches of

Old windows, or lower still

The doorways and the stoops,

Lush but tiny gardens behind

Elaborate fences of iron cast

Over a century ago, the 

Black bars bent over air 

Conditioners to protect them

From theft but suffering names

And messages raked across

The thin fins, storefronts 

Crowded with hardware or 

With puppies at eye level

Snoozing along the windows

Without signs—people knowing

Not to rap on the glass as they

Pass by, or bare with spare

Modernity and one-word titles

Like Authority, a single clerk

And single customer discussing

Whatever it is Authority sells

Or does, narrow Thai restaurants

Jammed between electronics shops

And drug stores, occasional food

Stores stacked high with all sorts

Of nosh from near or far along 

Intricate narrow aisles where 

Shoppers must ask to get by,

Where no doubt young lovers 

Meet for the first time

Searching for the same tea

Or exotic root to use in supper

That night, a street performer

Naked but for his briefs freezing

In the low 60s, frozen into a

Pose while the curious stop to

Watch for his blink or flinch

At their presence, walkers peeping

At the occupants of nearby

Apartments who walk past their

Windows waving hello to

Their voyeurs on the old

Elevated tracks. Despite the 

Softly blowing drizzle of that

Gray day myriads of the eager

Crowd gathered to parade as 

Natives of that blessed place,

So many more than live in

That city who have perhaps

Grown weary to the visual 

Delights abounding there,

My daughter terms the visitors

“Bridge and Tunnel” New 

Yorkers, like myself who

Are not inured to the glory of

This boisterous assemblage

In so many ways more startling

Than the breathless artifices

In the museums.

c. J.S.Manista, 2016