What If Everything Is Really Okay?
I think it would be okay to ask if everything's okay.
To write a short essay about everything being okay.
To wonder what would happen if we just decide
that everything is okay.
What if we realize that that which has always really sucked,
and all that we are seeing and experiencing right now that really sucks,
is really okay?
All the while still trying to decipher the hidden well-being in flowers,
and the great relationships between us and the flowers, all of us making out
on our Great Space Journey Out.
Is this really where I discover that everything is okay?
That all my day's work is through, and if everything is not okay in the end
then it’s not the end?
And that everything is always okay in the end?
What about at the end of the rainbow — everything okay there?
Rainbows are just to look at anyway, not to really understand.
Know what? Maybe it's okay if everything doesn't improve pretty soon.
Cultural Genocide, Culture of Death. . .
I'm pretty ordinary at baking in general, but I rock at scones.
And I wasn't really a point guard in high school, but I did ask Magic Johnson
“What is this deepness? Is every day really Christmas?”
And Magic Johnson answered:
“As Gandalf says in Lord of the Rings: ‘That’s right, amigos —
Reality doesn’t care what you think or believe.’”
But really, Gandalf was just retweeting the sweet words of Sade’s
Super Bowl half-time show: “I’m feeling strangely attracted to snow,
and I’m half-starting to glow.”
Everything is cool, Deacon Blues,
except I’m still waiting for my 360° super blintz to get here.
What is a blintz?
Is it a pastry or a food?
Either way, it’s okay.
One of the most ecstatic experiences of my life was yesterday
as I crawled across the floor of a famous café called
Outhouse in the Woods.
Try that for a few days or hours
or better yet, the rest of your life.
You might see that the shit fits nicely.
Show me a man who is completely present to whatever he is doing,
and I’ll show you a woman who is a rotten idol of unconsciousness,
a true revolution AGAINST SOMETHING, obviously,
but merging WITH EVERYTHING.
The spirituality of Julian of Norwich provides the real dope on
“Mom, that vein is, like, going to explode.
Do you really want to see something that gross?”
Julian’s visions continue to speak to lipstick and sex being just an illusion
of Cuddly the Bear confessing about detoxing through prayer
during endochrinology class.
Many have said that prayer is all that God wants,
but really — is he just strange bunny rabbit poop, or what?
How many people think he’s green?
Is God okay?
Dear Eskimo and Sparrow: is it okay to talk about God being okay
with monkeys at the dinner table?
With Pixar-style animation in the form of a woodpecker
inside a woman's head?
Is God not okay with girl-on-girl kisses?
How about four boys coming together
to change Christian break-dancing … forever?
Can Christians use marijuana according to scripture?
Does freedom in Christ allow this?
Instead of asking, "Is it okay for a Christian to get a tattoo,"
ask instead “Why is the stuck up bitch who created Shawnimals
(the snakelike thing and the puffier thing)
casting evil elves on Vin Diesel?
Will the result be glorifying to God?
Or just more chocolate covered bacon on a stick?
On a stick!
What I want to talk about now
is not how context is everything,
but why context is everything,
and why everything is okay.
Because apparently Beyoncé has permission from God
to wear hot clothes.
As her booty moves and changes,
making most of us uncomfortable
and uncertain about what may happen next,
God wants us to know that, "Everything will be okay ‘cause
that’s me, God doing the moving and the changing.
You don’t even have to call me God if you don’t want to.
Some call me Jehovah, some call me Mohammed,
some call me Vishnu . . . but I vish they’d stop.”
Apparently God must be drunk.
I'm considering staying just a little bit drunk myself from now on.
I am in the South,
where women take nips of potent Eastern European distilled plumb brandy
throughout the day, as they sit around being short.
Who am I to argue?
Did God create Da Bears, and make them superior to all teams?
If not, then God is just a hypothesis.
Okay, I stole that from the ancient Sumerians.
Petite words fail when describing the final unfurling of my dream
of Simon Cowell tossing Nikola Tesla’s letterhead
to the sharks in his toilet.
But don’t worry; everything is okay.
There's no need to act.
Nothing needs to change.
The Love Police hope to wake everyone up
from the real-life Matrix.
My name is Chad Manville,
and I am experiencing the self-sound of the emptiness of dharmatta,
which is the sound of a thousand spontaneous thunderbolts.
I am surrounded by various gate-keepers and light-bringers
all of whom are okay with “add to cart.”
And yet I am totally fucking with “add to cart!"
And that's okay, too.
Also okay is global super gayness.
So, please, just go about your business.
Someday We Shall All Say Yes To Death
This isn’t about big tent show business.
This isn’t about the saddest of carnivals.
This isn’t about the last time real TV had a decent show.
This is about how good Life and Death go together.
This is about how someday we shall all say yes to Death.
Yes, someday we shall all say yes to Death,
which is not the same as someday saying yes to
being Death Cab for Cutie’s ugly groupie.
Yes, Gabriel will sound that trumpet and it’s pin curls,
Noxzema and Phyllis Diller face
for three million eternities.
Yes, some day we shall collapse upon ourselves
and form a glistening star in a collision of galaxies
that includes three dimensional fractal globules
floating close to each other in linear sequence.
Together with Death we shall be
twin panda supernovas orbiting the vast disembodied
consciousness of Oprah.
But until then where would we be if we gave up
our dreams of partying with piñata enemas
and joined some German emo army?
Oh, yes, Chachi, oh, yes: we shall groan and sigh,
we shall bitch about children, cosmetics and doing the dishes,
but this is only the groan of persistent existence.
This is only the groan of "Well, if there is a resurrection of the body,
then what will we live in when we’re dead?”
This is the groan of, “Oh thanks, dead Gilligan,
for making it with Kentucky's 2nd biggest jackass mascot
Oh yes, we groan and sigh.
But can we just say yes
to the winnowing fingers, the fins and wings
that rock the shimmering dust mote swirl?
to the miracle of cells that stiffen into an expensive blond wood
of unicorn endurance?
If I have the stomach for being gossiped about by Gary Numan
in Tucson at a barbeque
can I also accept the plush velvet panic room
full of mini Charles Mansons
that is Death’s little Piñata Party?
When wiped down it occasionally
makes little cooing sounds.
If your ideas about death are set in concrete,
or if your heart is not open to unusual intrusions,
please stop dying right now.
That’s right — you can’t.
Cuckold Me, Amanda
Cuckold me, Amanda. Serious and nice. I'm looking to build a friendship where you
enjoy teasing and taunting me as much as I enjoy the jealousy of seeing you with another
man, or men, or whatever YOU want.
I’ve been busy, stressed and VERY VERY SICK for a long time now. Yoga didn’t help.
I'm trying very hard not to hold a grudge against yoga. I regard yoga as the lover who has
cuckolded me (i.e., Amanda).
Amanda, what Jack did to you was probably the best sex I ever had. The second best sex
was in a park at three o'clock in the morning in the freezing cold rain with Nico. I’ve
heard Venezuelans have the best sex. Amanda, have you ever had sex with a Venezuelan?
With hundreds of teenagers? With the top cop from the Department of Alcohol, Tobacco
and Firearms? Are the best things in life really a glass of semen and a pretty pony?
Amanda, I'm really sorry about the diabetes thing. If it's any consolation, I also have
severe athlete's foot. I am also sorry that I never returned to the so-called powwow. There
are some really good powwows here, but unfortunately the Precious Moments Powwow
was not one of them. Every sensible Saskatchewanian knows that the prairie chicken is a
It was after months of being a moron, Amanda, months of being the idiot, months of not
noticing things, always working really hard for the family in all those mental hospitals,
that I realized I had no concept of how far I was from my body, how much I had numbed.
I self-mutilate; I'm suicidal; I believe in spirits, not God; I have rape fantasies, I close my
eyes, I run into things, bounce off, walk away, oh God I think I'm falling! I knock myself
against the walls, screaming oh my God, let’s smoke some American Spirit cigarettes and
wear clothes! Writing and spelling in particular are really hard for me right now. I'm so
sick of trying, Amanda. I'm so sick of emotions. A few friends of mine are always trying to
touch my balls. Not many people have ever seen, much less touched, my balls. Hey, I
know what you're thinking, Amanda, but it's not like that at all — I am not gay. I hope
people don't think I'm trying to get you pregnant.
I am a weak person. Amanda, I know too well the inarticulate, voiceless world of pain. I
also know I haven’t been in Church for the last three Sunday’s. Painwise, my legs and feet
are swollen and hurting all the time, even when I am home and lay down. On the other
hand, I love my job, the responsibilities, the customers, the cashiers. Weight loss, Wal-
Mart, pain, life . . . whatever.
I've been putting this off for the longest time, and now I am going to do it. . . . Oh, Amanda,
won't you just play with my balls? What if I say please? Aw c'mon. I think we all know
that dry balls is not fun at all, though actually my balls get freaking sweaty/smelly
sometimes, My balls itch, Amanda. I hope it’s not from that neighbor lady next door ;) . . . .
My balls are on FIRE! And I don’t mean the type of Japanese balls that you twirl in your
hand to relieve stress.
I have to go now, Amanda. I have to attempt the washing of my arse in the sink and watch
a clip from this Lindsay Lohan comedy. I have to go shampoo my beard. I have to go see
a man about a dog. I have to go wash my EYES! I have to go and be British now. I think I
have arthritis, Amanda — now what? I would like suggestions on where I should go now.
If you see Bad Hiker tired in the road, would you have some water for him? You see,
Amanda, the thing is, Socrates was a fuck-face. I’ll have to go all Aristotle on your ass. If you’ll just
fucking excuse me, I have to go declare BANKRUPTCY! I have to go from pub to pub. I
have dreams to serve. I'm going to have to go to church on Christmas — this is an issue.
Also the fact that this conversation ended 3 days ago.
I know you're beginning to develop a soul, Amanda. I hope you escape one day and find
happiness. Perhaps with a carpenter. A new closet, except with sex, is so much better
than anything associated with a "serious relationship."
SHARON MESMER's most recent poetry collections are Annoying Diabetic Bitch (Combo, 2008) and The Virgin Formica (Hanging Loose, 2008). A new collection, as yet untitled, is forthcoming from Bloof Books in the fall.