John Reese Bessit

1787-1809


Raised in solitude
near Glynwedd, Wales
in a rotted cabin miles from anyone
in the deepest hollow of a dark wood
in fear and trembling

by an only father who failed to end the boy's life
by the age of four
by neglect and drowning;
not by a lack of effort,
but by drunkenness and cowardice
and his own early death.

John Reese Bessit didn't survive,
he LIVED.

The boy didn't know
jealousy or lust,
anger or pride.
He had new life.
He knew God,
new leaves and rainfall,
and always a new sunrise.

He listened to the birds.
I mean, he LISTENED to them.
He learned to whistle
to the exact pitch, each song
to each bird in the forest
to tell his thoughts, and in turn
to be trusted with their
well-traveled tales.

In the cover of night
he would slink down to the murky pond
to wade in the water
and wedge himself
beneath the muddy banks
to wiggle his body in the slime
and stare up at the moon.

John Reese Bessit
emerged from his wood
at the edge of town
at the age of 22
at dusk.

A Conversation I Hope I Never Have (ending with sit-ups)

"Taken out of context
this may sound
presumptuous,
but Jacob Richard Edwards,
I don't think you would make
a good living
pitching
lawn darts."

"Man,
I don't even know how to put that back
into context.
I've never touched a lawn dart,
and I'm not sure anyone could even make a living
pitching them."

"Am I really that presumptuous?"

"Look man,
I have no idea who you are,
how you know my middle name,
or why you're
standing on my toes."

"I have some news about your dog."

"I've never owned a dog."

"You might want to sit down for this..."

Biological Warfare

Conversation,
wielded by the wordless
succubus,
fattening on suckled
flattery,
is a well-aimed weapon
waged on the aged
and unaware
growing like a fresh mold culture
on attentive ears
in a warm petri dish.

Bravery
is
brevity.

Lucky Charms

Before there were gated communities,
grandmothers used to leave hot apple pies sitting on sills.

Before there was morning rush hour,
men used to take long showers.

Before there was a glass ceiling,
women used to leave conditioner in for the recommended 2 minutes.

Before there were telephones,
neighbors used to truthfully answer "How are you?"

Before there was day care,
children used to savor their food.

Before there were investment portfolios,
girls used to think their fathers were strong.

Before there was sun screen,
boys used to ride their bikes without knee pads.

Before there were Brita filters,
you were expected to slurp the rest of your lucky-charm-stained milk.

Before there were 7-step self-help books,
people used to be happy.

The Beard

Having a beard for the past month
has changed my life.
I think every man
at some point in their 20's
should grow a beard
to be fully initiated into manhood.

Manhood doesn't come easy.
Here is a list of official steps
towards becoming a real man....

1. Learn to drive stick
2. Catch a fish with a fly rod
3. Pack your own pipe to burn all the way through by only lighting it once
4. Appreciate jazz
5. Be able to taste the difference of single-malt scotch
6. Beat your father in chess
7. Build your own piece of furniture
8. Change your own oil
9. Buy your wife lingerie
10. Spend a night alone in the woods

and number 11.......
Grow a beard,
a real, full beard,
and then be described by someone who doesn't know you as
"the guy with the beard".

Number 11 was the last on my list
because there have been little patches
past the corners of my mouth
that have been stubbornly bare
for the past 26 years.
But now,
finally now,
I am a fully bearded man.

And oh is it glorious!
Old men don unearned respect
and children default to subservient subordination,
without hesitation.
I drive slower,
eat longer,
speak deeper,
and slurp my soup
with reckless abandon.

Confidence exudes
and no kingdom is unconquerable
now that I am officially initiated as a
real man
with a beard.

Loathing

Every achievement,
great or small,
whether remembered
or anticipated,
can become a wobbly crutch,
and if leaned upon too heavily,
will suck all the meat and marrow
of real life
from our fragile bones.

I was sitting outside yesterday
May 2nd
on our new patio furniture
trying to decide whether I should
smoke my pipe
or try to go to bed early,
while fending off about 15 other thoughts
banging on my subconscious
about the next big achievements
of the next 9 months.

My thoughts spiraled off towards spring
and new life,
and then.........

I don't know if the air shifted
or a twig snapped
or what,
but my mind stopped.
The present was upon me.
I noticed that my left leg was
shaking spastically,
my stomach was clinched,
and I was grinding my teeth.

I slouched in my chair,
aware
of my chest and stomach rising slowly together,
and my skin
breathing in
all 74 degrees in the air.

Just then a giant turkey buzzard
as deformed
as death-rot
took flight from a branch just above my head
and glared back at me
with loathing.

Coincidence?
I think not.

The Woods

The endless woods of our youth
initiated us into
men.
We became explorers,
hunters, conquistadors.
We were kings down there.

We ruled our kingdom with inflated responsibility
and wreckless joy,
and the wonders we discovered,
imagined,
and still exaggerate,
have sustained us even now.

The river still runs through it all,
only,
the logs we crossed have become slabs of concrete and asphalt,
the vines we swung on have twisted into power lines,
the forts we built have grown into suburbian McMansions
with fences,
and the debris
carried down the current form curses in my mouth
and leave a burning aftertaste of bile.