To Georgia, with Love

There is something in the guttural

sounds of the words,

or the frenzy of traffic

that’s moving in herds.

You might hear it or smell it

or swallow it whole,

but you’ll never quite grasp it

or clasp it in full.

You can squiggle your eyes

and twiddle your toes,

waggle your tongue

even crinkle you nose,

but it’s far beyond senses

and fences and prose.

When your catching your breath

between dozens of toasts,

when your vision is blurred

so your host becomes hosts,

it’s then that you just might

gather a glimpse,

of a spirit that’s moving

in staggering limps…

Wait that’s you (!) that is straining

to hold it together,

that’s raising your glass without

care about whether

you’ll wake in the morning

and make it to school

or pass out on the table

in a heap like a fool.

And maybe you are one

for starting to think

you’d keep up with the Georgians

in food and in drink.

Still there’s solace in knowing

that whenever you rise,

it will all make sense,

it will even seem wise,

that you’re breakfast consists

of congealed French fries.

No you’ll never explain it

as hard as you try.

Whatever you say will

come out as a lie.

But as far as you figure

your brain can surmise,

this terrible hangover

is somehow your prize.

So you walk to the street

and you wait for the bus,

you look to the ground

and you try not to cuss.

Through the nausea you sense

that the day is beginning.

The stray dogs are howling,

the world is still spinning.

Four children go by

hand in hand in a line.

The sun on the river

is beginning to shine.

The merchant is sweeping

the dust from the walk,

the farmer is guiding

and chiding his stock.

The wind is running the

length of the street.

Here you are studying

the tops of your feet.

And it’s then you remember

that something was said,

last night between mouthfuls

of wine and of bread.

It had something to do with

good health and good family.

It’s hard to recall

it was winding and rambly.

But whatever it was

everybody agreed

that it was something to

stand for in word and in deed.

That was all fine and good

but now you can feel it.

Look around, it’s all here,

nobody can steal it.

It is pulsing, convulsing,

inside your head,

from your heart to your heels

starting now til’ you’re dead.

If it hurts that’s okay

least you know that it’s there.

There’s no secret or trick

everyone gets there share.

So you raise your gaze

and flag down your ride,

climb in to the crush

of humans inside.

And it smells and it’s hot

but you’re traveling fast,

contorting your limbs

in a way that can’t last.

Swerving upstream making

dangerous blind passes,

inhaling the sweat and the

germs of the masses.

You’re trying to swallow

your bile and your pride,

accept that your stuck and

along for the ride,

when suddenly lurching

you come to your stop,

the hiss of the door

drops you out with a plop.

And now you have paid

and now you’ve arrived

now you can even say

you survived.

But that’s not enough to get by,

its not even close

though this country has served

you a near lethal dose.

Your job is to teach

something you know:

surviving’s not it

because no one’s a pro.

So you walk up the steps

trying to figure the score,

what it is about Georgia that

makes you want more.

It’s far beyond thinking and

breathing and saying.

Too much to afford

however you’re paying.

Whatever it be it’s

around in the air,

hidden from sight

so long as you stare.

Raise your glass, close your eyes,

forget what you know.

Head to class, head to work,

in the rain or the snow.

Speak up in that language,

forget all your woes.

What you mean will be clear

when you say Gaomarjos!