Honest Chaos Mark Bonica

Oh, Achilles, you were a sucker
you died and you were forgotten.
Perhaps not your name
but who you actually were -
the details that differentiated you
from the other brutes on the beach -
and who knows how much Homer just plain made up
after a glass or three,
and he wasn’t one to disappoint the crowd.
If they wanted a little more blood
or wanted you to be a little bigger and stronger
and not actually have had to fight your fear
well then so be it.
But that’s not you he’s singing about,
let’s be clear.
That’s Homer's Achilles,
and people are remembering that Achilles,
the one he made up to turn a little gold.
They're not remembering what you actually did,
not what you actually sacrificed -
not the beautiful children you could have held,
not the fields you would have tilled,
not the sunsets you would have pondered
leaning on your plow
in your old age
that you did not have.


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Each of us is born
with a key-shaped soul -
we spend our lives
looking for the moments
we are meant to unlock,
where only we are the right answer
to a question
otherwise unanswerable.


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I'm burning a candle
as a metaphor for how short our human lives are,
us all being poor actors strutting and fretting.
But this one here
is a three-wick spiced cardamom candle
not something extruded from pig fat
or gathered from hives.

I won't be lighting a lamp
courtesy of some whale's song cut short
by hard men on three year voyages
out of Nantucket -
though I may catch the ferry there this summer
for a day of rubbing elbows with the tourist elite
none of whom smell like fish
or have salt plastered to their sun burned faces.

Indeed, human life is a bit longer
and a lot less cruel.
And the candles are plentiful
if you need one
to be reminded.


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When you start your day
by stubbing your toe
even before you get to the bathroom
and you know it's an insignificant injury
in the scope of world tragedy
but in the moment
the pain occupies all of your brain
except for the part still carrying on
about how you have to pee -
this
is a first glimmer
that the old gods
are about today.

But in case you're not ready to believe,
you'll have cut yourself shaving
and that tiny slice will bleed
onto the first shirt you put on
and so you'll go downstairs
having dressed yourself twice.
You'll knock your coffee over
with a flick of your hand,
then you'll forget your keys on your way to your car
and then as you pull out of your neighborhood,
you'll remember your wallet
is waiting patiently on the counter for you.
And you will do a quick calculus -
can I get through my day with no money?
what's the chance the police will pull me over?
and that last one,
given the other signs
has you turning around in some stranger's driveway.

Now your ancestors in that Mediterranean village -
no, not the ones with the copious crucifixes,
before them.
The ones who made the tiny shrines
tucked into every nook and corner
where their descendants, closer to you,
shoved little statues of Mary,
but those older ancestors had other figures there first.
They knew when a splash of wine was called for,
or to place a slice of orange
or a few almonds.
And they would tell you,
based on the morning you are having
that you have
with the utmost certainty
offended a god.
A small god, most likely,
but still, what are you?
Not a god,
they would tell you.

And now you,
having lost touch with the old ways,
awkwardly pour a bit of your coffee from your travel mug
onto the mulch by the garage door,
the threshold of your home and the larger world.
It's a small gesture,
but it is noted.

Somehow from there
you find yourself moving more deliberately
and all the lights are green when you roll up to them
and all the cars seem to have other places to be
other than in front of you,
and thus
somehow,
you arrive on time.


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So now you have left us,
having run through the number of your days
which we did not know were ending,
but we came upon
like a fallen tree blocking the road
just after we rounded the bend.
We slammed on the breaks
and everything came to a stop -
we could see our lives frozen
in the ice of time
and we stood outside
waiting for the sun to melt us
back into a new reality -
one without you.


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The trees blush in reds and yellows
at the thought of undressing for winter -
soon they will stand
brazenly naked,
gray,
the color of acceptance and surrender.

Boney arms are lifted in prayer -
do not make the snow
heavy like concrete,
keep the ice storms away.
Let the nor'easters go on out to sea
where the fish can look up and wonder
at the whirling mystery
of the airy world.


This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit honestchaos.substack.com