This is the House That Lies Built*
Copyright  © 2013
By Erika Whitmore

This is the house that Lies built.

This is the “Man”
That lay in the house that Lies built.

This is the Lust that drove the “Man”
That lay in the house that Lies built.

This is his Greed that fueled the Lust
That drove the “Man” that lay in the house that Lies built.

This is the Loyal Woman that Got in the Way of his Greed
That killed the Lust that drove the “Man”
That lay in the house that Lies built.

This is the Urge to fill his lascivious Needs
So he dumped the Loyal Woman that got in the Way of his Greed
That killed the Lust that drove the “Man”
That lay in the house that Lies built.

This is the “Maiden” all forlorn
Who ignited his Urge to fill his lascivious needs
So he dumped the Loyal Woman that got in the way of his Greed
That killed the Lust that drove the “Man”
That lay in the house that Lies built.

This is the “Man” all tattered and torn
That fcked the “Maiden” all forlorn
Who ignited his Urge to fill his lascivious Needs
So he dumped the Loyal Woman that got in the Way of his Greed
That killed the Lust that drove the “Man”
That lay in the house that Lies built.

This is his Addiction to women and ****
That ******* the “Man” all tattered and torn
That fcked the “Maiden” all forlorn
Who ignited his Urge to fill his lascivious Needs
So he dumped the Loyal Woman that got in the Way of his Greed
That killed the Lust that drove the “Man”
That lay in the house that Lies built.

This is the **** that crows in the morn
That shone light on his Addiction to women and ****
That ******* the “Man” all tattered and torn
That fcked the “Maiden” all forlorn
Who ignited his Urge to fill his lascivious Needs
So he dumped the Loyal Woman that got in the Way of his Greed
That killed the Lust that drove the “Man”
That lay in the house that Lies built.

This is the ****** for the ******* he mourns
Which now keeps the **** up that crows in the morn
That shone the light on his Addiction to women and ****
That ******* the “Man” all tattered and torn
That fcked the “Maiden” all forlorn
Who ignited his Urge to fill his lascivious Needs
So he dumped the Loyal Woman that got in the Way of his Greed
That killed the Lust that drove the “Man”
That lay in the house that Lies built.

These are the Memories of those who loved him, whom he has scorned,
And traded in for ****** and the ******* he mourns
Just to dwell on the **** that crows in the morn
That shone  the light on his Addiction to women and ****
That ******* the “Man” all tattered and torn
That fcked the “Maiden” all forlorn
Who ignited his Urge to fill his lascivious Needs
So he dumped the Loyal Woman that got in the Way of his Greed
That killed the Lust that drove the “Man”
That lay in the house that Lies built.
###

I.

The last thing? It wadn't nothing special. Pa and me, well, we never had what I guess you'd call a real easy exchange. He kept to hisself. I kept to myself. We worked hard, and we appreciated each other. But we--and this may be sad to you, but it ain't sad to me--we didn't get touchy-feely. Didn't say "I love you" or things like that. We traded off fetching the water. Traded off nabbing clothes off the line for Ma. He taught me how to be, to live, you know? How to work the cotton. How to work the mules. He gave me three bullets--just three--every time I took the .22 out to get a squirrel. "Make it count," he'd say. "Don't bring home less than four." Making it count--that means more than that other stuff.

So, what I'm saying is, in the end it wadn't no big to-do. Before he handed Ma the shotgun and told us to get, he stuck his head out the kitchen window, the one just over the sink. He said, "It's gonna rain. Them's the kind of clouds that ain't fickle."

I said I reckoned he was right. He said yep. Handed Ma the shotgun. And that was that.


II.

Robert never wanted to live in Tennessee. He was a Kentucky boy, and if it hadn't been for my selfishness, I believe he would have died a Kentucky boy--or man, rather--at a much later date. See my mother, Faye, she got dreadful sick back in '31, and I says to him, I says, Robert, you know my sister can't take care of her--this being on account of her being touched in the head and all. He didn't say nothing, which was usual, but he didn't grumble neither and that, that right there, is the mark of a good man.

We started with just 80 acres. He built the house hisself. Did you know that? It wasn't nothing fancy, no, but we didn't need nothing fancy. It was made pretty much entirely of--oh what do they call it. It ain't just cedar. That uh uh uh--red cedar. Can't believe I forgot that.

Anyway, our place was sprawling with red cedar. Not the prettiest trees you ever saw, but they were ours, and they provided what we needed of them.

Because of us doing alright with the logging, we was able to pick up the Whitmore place. That was another 160 acres.  Robert hated Tennessee, not a doubt in my mind about that. It was his home, though, you see. It was his land. He wanted to make something of it to give to our son, Henry.


III.

Come all you people if you want to hear
The story about a brave engineer;
He's Franklin D. Roosevelt, in Washington D.C.
He's running the train they call 'prosperity.'

Now he straightened up the banks with a big holiday;
He circulated money with the T.V.A.
With the C.C.C. and the C.W.A.
He's brought back smiles and kept hunger away.
      -"Casey Roosevelt" [Excerpts]
          Folk song recorded by Buck Fulton for E.C. and M.N. Kirkland, July, 1937


IV.

Before they even started on the reservoir, the Tennessee Valley Authority started digging up the dead. I'm serious. Most frightful thing you ever saw. Hickory Road--and I swear, I swear on the country, the good Lord, anything from a ****** to a mountain--the road was full-up with buggies carting coffins. Three days straight they were carting dead folks down to Clinton. Most of the coffins were barely holding up, too. Made out that crude pine. Seeing them yellow-but-not-yellow heads poking out was enough to make a feller sick.

If I remember right, they had to relocate something like 5,000 before they dammed up the Clinch, but they made a lot more living, breathing folks than that move along. Lot more.


V.

A week before the T.V.A went and flooded the valley the sounds stopped. The duhh-duhh. The errgh-errgh. You know? The sounds of work. When you don't got all that noise going on--that routine, I guess you could say--what can you do but think?

And because of that, I believe, that last week Pa acted different. He was trying not to, trying to act just the same. But he was trying to be the same too hard. Ma would take coffee off the stove, pour it for him and he'd say: "Thank you, sweetheart." He always said thank you. That much was the same. It's that sweetheart bit that didn't fit in his mouth right. She left the kitchen. Couldn't take it.

Tom Scott hung himself, too. Clyde Johnson, his brother Jacob. There was one more. Big fella that lived down by Hershel's store. Can't remember his name. Pa's was the only body that didn't wash up on the bank.

I never did see them after they washed up. Mrs. Scott said it was appalling. She said her husband's body was all puffed up, swollen with the water. Sheriff cut the rope off her husband's neck. She said that neck was black leading into purple leading into black. Raw. Mrs. Scott didn't live too long after that. A year or so. The shame got to her I suppose.

When folks called my pa a coward, I never argued with them. Didn't see the point. What's a coward? Somebody hang hisself? Somebody that leave his wife and boy to fend for themselves? That a coward? Call him what you want. I ain't gonna argue. All he is--is dead to me.

VI.

My people will abide in a peaceful habitation, in secure dwellings, and in quiet resting places. And it will hail when the forest falls down, and the city will be utterly laid low. Happy are you who sow beside all waters, who let the feet of the ox and the donkey range free.
         - Isaiah 32:18-20

VII.**

Robert had brown, wavy hair. He had big hands with scarred knuckles. He was missing a tooth on the right side. Three or four down from the front. You could only tell when he laughed. Every day in the field he wore the same cap, a Miller's Co-op cap, with overlapping sweat stains. He never wanted to track dirt in the house so he'd knock on the side of the house anytime he needed something from inside, like a box of matches or a knife or something. The first two knocks would be to get my attention. They'd sound urgent. The third was soft, as if to say please. When we went to bed, he always waited for me to fall asleep before he even tried. He knew his snoring kept me up.

On the last day, Robert handed me his shotgun. Says, "I love you, Mary." He was so choked up, I didn't know if he was going to kiss me. So I kissed him. Says, "I love you Robert." And that was pretty much all. We got in the buggy and headed off to my mother's.

I wanted to bury the shotgun. I knew I'd need a place to visit, a place to talk to Robert. And it had to be a piece of him. I dug the hole out behind my mother's place. Henry, he must've thought I was crazy, digging that hole the very next day. He asked me what I was going to put in there. I says the shotgun. He says, "No, ma'am, you isn't." I says, "Yes, son, I is." He says we need that gun. Get squirrels. Get rabbits. Make it count, he says.

I was pretty sore about it, but I ended up throwing my wedding ring in that hole. It being the only other thing that was him. We put the shotgun over the door frame in the kitchen.

I miss him every day. I feel it in my body. Feel it down to my bones. I imagine it wouldn't feel no different if I had lost a hand. But what makes me sadder than anything, sadder than not seeing Robert every morning, sadder than knowing he don't get to see what Henry makes of hisself, is that Robert didn't get nobody's attention.

He never said that's why he had to do it. I just figured as much. He wouldn't die for nothing. That wasn't him. The paper wouldn't say nothing about him other than he was dead. I wrote the T.V.A. Never heard nothing back. It's like the world mumbled, "I'm sorry," and just spun on. That's what they give the good men: a mumble. Killers make the front page. They're in the pictures. The good men? For the good men, the world has to keep asking for their names. The world says, "Oh, Robert, right," and "I'm sorry." But the world don't mean it. The world's got dams to build, valleys to flood. Graves to move. People to uproot. Why? Do you know? Course you don't. God hisself would shrug his shoulders and tell me that's just the way it is.

“To be or not to be, that is the question”
The answer, still unclear
Cans’t we be and not be at the same time?
That way we can choose how to be when life gets in the way
Would be easier on everyone

“I’m afraid I’m turning into a cliché”
My entire existence is a cliché
I’ve thought it up before
And here I go repeating
Preaching my so-called life
To those I thought had it different
I was wrong

“What Am I Missing?”
Besides you of course?
Besides your smile?
Not much I think

“Willing to tolerate less frequent service”
From the people in charge
Apparently we have free will
Who knew?  

“Licks his lips , turns my hands”
I am a clock
Only time will tell
When my hands will show
Quarter to midnight
He cannot turn time
Before it turns him

“I am one half of him
You will see
Cut me in half to reveal his trickery”
You will see
Where he tried to turn the hands of time
And failed
Cut him in half
You will find
The bind of time he almost left behind
That he almost broke and shattered
“The trauma cut both ways”

“Juliet’s the word they use for anyone that’s done it with pills or poision”
It’s also our word for a fool
Who was in so much pain
She caused more pain to herself
Who chose to halt the hands of time
Before it was time to
You cannot meddle with these kinds of things
Time cannot stand it



“The wall I was knocking down”
The one that kept me from you
The one that cheated time
“All of it was simply not the real thing”

“Maybe the supreme self-confidence I envied, was nothing more than masked insecurity”
Maybe the whole world is a façade
Just waiting to be uncovered
Waiting for the right person to come along
And reveal the secrets of time and space
There is no use in envy
It causes unnecessary guilt
Towards a cause you yourself did not create

“Adjusting or adapting a scheme”
Time is a pattern we must adapt to
We cannot be radical and say,
‘***** you time, I won’t conform!’
You must.
Being radical isn’t necessary
When you are given one of the most precious things
You will ever receive
Cherish it
It’s what you must do
“Now I understand”

I may have love
I may lose love
But I will never regret a single thing
For I know that I had not cheated time
I had lived a full life
Embraced every moment
“Splendid if I overcome my earthly passion, but if I succeed, still I have known happiness”





  Hamlet by William Shakespeare
2 Midway by David Homel
3 Pretty Little Liars by Sara Shepard
4 Economic Naturalist by Robert H. Frank
5 Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk
6 “His Ace of Spades” by Noelle Havens, a poem from Cellar Roots Literary Magazine, p.69
7 Militainment, Inc. by Roger Stahl
8 Kneller’s Happy Campers by Etgar Keret
9 “An Exclusive” from The ******* the Fridge by Etgar Keret
10 Death of Ivan Illyich by Leo Tolstoy
11Sloppy Firsts by Megan McCafferty
12 World of Children textbook by Greg Cook
13Set Me Free by Miranda Beverely-Whitmore
14 Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy

Pushy Mother-Fcker
Copyright © 2013 Erika Whitmore

Pushy mother-fcker
We doin’ this or not?
And - you can keep your ******* venom, Dude
Is that really all you got?

You lodge your disgust and hate
Like an acid punctuation
Contort your face and raise your voice?
I smile at your frustration

I grow weary at the thought of you
And tire of your pathetic jabs
It’s been eons since I said we’re through
I won’t be your punching bag

You try to walk the line and
And bide your time
And play both ends against the middle
But you better know that I’m at my prime
So, your “tactics” matter little.

I’ll take the blame
And all your “spew”
You’re so predictable it’s lame
Around we go, in circles now
But your ******* remains the same

So, get your head out of your ***
And take a look around --
You sadly think your **** don’t stink
But, like gas, I’ll have to pass
Before I’m knee deep in your brown

Your arrogant, condescending tone
Is driving me insane
So, I just hope
For your sake that you’re prepared
…‘Cause it’s about to rain!

You Are Not Alone
Copyright © 2013
By Erika Whitmore

You are not alone
You will never be forgotten.

At the rising of the moon
Through the beams illuminating
Through the starlight reverberating,
Sonorous
Blissful angels weeping
O’er enchanting, echoed voices
… you resonate with me

Tones upon tones upon…
The stars… these ancient stars
Reflecting
In pools and rings…

…that beget rings that beget rings…
Never-ending
Flowing in, ebbing out
In all, in everything
That surrounds you, that’s in me
Blue-azure-and green jade tumbling water

It is so beautiful,
Beyond what words can speak.
…It is you.

Now nothing…
Quiet, falling snow of cotton
Dark and heavy heart

But you are not alone -
…and we are not apart.

And you will never…
Be forgotten.

~
(For My Beloved Ahira and Inspired by and written while listening to: “I Can Hear the Moon Rising,” “Rapture” and “Love Is Surrender” by Kip Mazuy on www.calm.com)