STANLEY'S CASE

(After Harold Pinter's The Birthday Party)

Boy, why are you so menaced by the world? Is it
God or his death that troubles you so? Making you
quite fey: A little lisping Adam without your prized
testicles. You really are a remarkable case: A
miserable shut-in, you see, you seldom leave your
small room. A lot like Stanley: Open and shut. Quite
curious and classic - that sort of case. But in
America. Only go out when the full moon's watching
you above. The wet streets reflect pale light  and
queer passing shadows, as you make your way to
the neighborhood liquor store: Heineken. 22 OZ. Big
green bottle. I see you, boy. I've watched you
nervously count your last pennies for the
butch and angry cashier. A regular Roman, that one.
And your stringy Jesus hair and pathetic sandals only
make him want to string you up, like a scarecrow or
Christ. He'll make you suffer, boy. He makes you
suffer. All the way out the door.

You seem better during your long walk home. Notice
the many bright lights in the chill December
night. Little Drummer Boys abound. The
Christ's-child's safe in the miniature
barn. If I could, I'd tell you beauty and
truth are just artificial things to help pass
the time: Art. Philosophy. Religion -
all pretty lies, boy. All pretty lies. Give your blood
money  away to the least of your kind instead.
Whisper your false words in a beggar's lonely ear.
Tell him silver is greater than love. Pretend it's a
prayer, a holy promise. Then betray him with a kiss.
It's your ticket to heaven, boy. Much easier than a
noose. The Romans would have loved the shameless
Christ-lights, not because they are such a stunning
spectacle of ceremony, but because they are electric
and would have come in handy for the daily crucifixions.
They'd merely turn the crosses into wooden chairs -
a kinder way to kill. Romans. Real men. Adam
with his silly balls intact, boy.

Poem © 2014 by Dylan Mitchell