On Valentine’s

NOTE TO READERS: Here it is again: the famous Valentine Vic wrote and sent through the Darton College campus to the female faculty and staff, an act then-VP Joseph Kirkland termed “sexual harassment.” Vic’s lawyer condescendingly defined the term so Kirkland and President Peter Sireno had to contend themselves with a letter of reprimand for Vic’s records and the later dismissal of his division chair for not siding with key staff against faculty no matter how illegal or ludicrous the charges. So here it is again and so it shall be sent every Feb. 14 until his death and (according to the provisions of his will) in perpetuity by his heirs and descendents with this preface: ” A condition of my spiritual redemption mandates perpetual and public forgiveness to trespassors against me, in this case Peter Sireno and Jospeh Kirkland, who accused me falsely of “sexual harassment.” If you are easily harassed sexually, don’t read it.”

On Valentine’s the birds do choose their mates.

The hawks in flight and sparrows on the ground

Stop hunting prey and hopping all around.

They couple up, and then they copulate

 In feathered frenzy squawking all along.

And then some roost in trees, some merely sit

Upon the heads of statues where they shit.

Some sort of whistle, or they sing a song.

One thing is true of every kind of fowl:

Those of feather do together flock.

The buzzard never makes it with the cock.

The raven never climbs upon an owl.

 The heron does not stoop to hump the quail,

And lovebirds only nestle in a pair

with other lovebirds. The world never dare

to mount a peacock’s multi-colored tail.

 

You never see a bluebird mount a jay,

and chickadees don’t dittle mockingbirds,

but I could waste a hundred thousand words

and still not tell you what I have to say

 about the birds and all that they don’t do.

They do enough of interest, to be sure,

although they keep their pedigrees quite pure.

To illustrate, I will describe a few:

 

Male ostriches jump on their partner’s back.

Her head is stuck securely in the sand,

and eagles daily high above the land.

The duck has his orgasm with a quack!

 

The penguins pass the long mid-winter’s night

with lots and lots of sub-Antarctic vice.

They hunker down and do it on the ice

because they were denied the gift of flight

 and can’t fly off to Florida to mate.

Despite the cold the females are not frigid,

and little feathered penises get rigid

when February 14 is the date.

 

The vulture mixes dalliance with death.

His boudoir is the rib cage of a horse.

When buzzards have imbibed the final course,

they huddle up and coo with rancid breath.

And then there is the cuckoo, we are told,

that lays its eggs into another’s nest,

and foster parenthood is then impressed.

The bird that’s wronged is labeled the cuckold.

 

Some feathered fornicators mate in flight.

At least they come together in the air.

Then they become a quickly falling pair

with ruffled feathers, squawking with delight.

 They roll their soaring passion in a ball

but wisely keep an eye upon the ground

as they, inflamed in lust, come hurling down

while yodeling in joy their mating call.

 A carefree couple high above the stone

— two eagles, say, or falcons, even hawks —

may quite forget themselves in their sweet squawks

and break their feathered asses and their bones.

 

For birds that do their mating in the skies,

it’s best to prematurely ‘jaculate,

for they will both be wasted if they wait.

Coitus interruptus is advised.

The robin in his russet feathered breast

will strut his stuff upon the frosty ground,

while horny maiden robins gather round

deciding which cock robin they like best

And after that decision has been made

they gang-bang him round-robin near to death

until he’s long of tongue and short of breathand cured of any notion to get laid.

 

The female hummingbird receives a thrill

so quick it is a singular sensation

that’s put to her as one high-speed vibration.

She might as well sit on a dentist drill

 as let that high-tech hummer have his way —

he hits and runs and ravishes so fast

she feels a subtle tingle in her ass,

and that is all. I’m sure she could say

 for sure if she’d been diddled by a beau

or felt alone an airy premonition.

He never bothers with a proposition,

but if he’s good, she’ll ask “Which way’d he go?”

 

Well, people, too, when they are so inclined,

will come in season when the sap is down

in February, and they’ll choose their mates

and call them Valentines,

 whom the will hop upon with birdlike glee

and warble, whistle, whip-poor-will, or screech

when one is tow and half of all is each.

They may climb up and do it in a tree

or in a hammock swinging from its limbs,

in airplane restrooms high above the earth.

In caves they’ll fornicate for all they’re worth

or in the church’s vestry during hymns.

 

The human couples, like the owl or loon,

in cloistered darkness or in broad daylight

will come together morning, noon, and night

upon the water or beneath the moon.

 They’ll stretch their loves spread-eagle on the grass

or couple in the backseat of a car.

It doesn’t really matter where they are.

The body’s mobile when the mind’s on ass.

 

But now this Valentine is getting long.

And high time that I practiced what I preach

and hoping that my grasp exceeds my reach,

I’ll tell you why I up and wrote this song:

 I have admired your beauty from a-far

and now would like to have a closer look,

at all your crannies, valleys, hills, and nooks –

the stuff that makes you beauty that you are,

 

So if you’ll sacrifice a little time,

we’ll put our knees together for a chat,

and we’ll exchange our kisses tit for tat,

and you can then become my valentine.

 

Oh, I’ll provide the tats. You bring the other,

and we can dally well into the night

until the morning planet sends her light

to charm you wits. Then you will be my lover.

We’ll join up with the eagle and the dove,

of Mars and Venus, mom and dad of Cupid,

who (everybody knows that isn’t stupid)

can shoot a hypodermic dart of love

 

That will unite us solely; that’s a fact.

He can inflame man, woman, beast or birds.

Then you and I will make, in Shakespeare’s words,

the legendary “beast that has two backs.”

 

 

Cantey

The Albany Journal published this Wednesday,Febrauary 9,2011 about Vic’s old friends.

Cantey Davis was a jock back then. His hero was Coach Bob Fowler, who’d won 15 Varsity letters at Earlham, the Quaker university at Richmond, Indiana. Coach Bob was 6’8” in the days when nobody else was tall enough to dunk basketballs. He inspired exemplary deportment without having to raise his voice. As a matter of fact, whenever Coach Bob wasn’t grinning, things got quiet. He was trying to teach Cantey to control his temper.
Coach Bob’s brother Jim caught hawks and hunted with them. At the time he was off somewhere in South America catching a harpy eagle. Before he made a name for himself on Wild Kingdom, our mothers warned us if we didn’t study hard, we’d end up like that worthless Jim Fowler, though we thought it took a lot of class to choose a profession by a pun on your last name.

I was sure to make my own fortune very soon after getting out of Dougherty County. I might go down to South America myself, I thought. Carve an enormous pecan plantation out of the Brazilian jungle and oversee it by horseback. I bet by God Margaret Wilson would listen up when I set up a concert grand piano for her in the grand hall of my antebellum mansion. I’d saunter in, remove my Panama hat from disheveled ducktails, lean against the doorway in my muddy English knee boots listening to Mozart with one critical eyebrow raised. I pictured her in a flowing white dress playing the concert grand or nursing me back to health from some romantic disease that didn’t involve dysentery or urinary discharges. Something like malaria, with cold chills and hot fevers. I’d lie in a high canopy bed, hovering near death, as she applied cold compresses to my winged temples. The idea of dying didn’t bother me a bit, nor did the fact that nothing in my high school curriculum had prepared me for carving out colonial plantations. In retrospect, I’ve known only two people in my life who contracted malaria. Mr. Haslam, owner of the Greatest Used Bookstore in the World, caught a fatal dose in Africa, and Jimmy Gray, who picked his up in Viet Nam. Jimmy assured me that malaria (at least the Vietnamese strain) isn’t romantic.

Cantey, bound for Dartmouth on a football and academic scholarship, was saving his cash from a temporary job delivering Easter flowers in a bunny costume for his Uncle Jim Pace, the florist. Cantey was supposed to hippity‑hop from the delivery truck to the front door with floral bouquets husbands ordered for their wives. The best hippity‑hop Cantey could manage was a lope interceded by a spastic lurch among the barking dogs and the gaggles of children who swarmed him barking and screaming, nipping and grabbing at his cotton tail.

The public danger lay in the disguise. The floppy‑ears and demented buck‑tooth smile of the headpiece innocuously masked a simmering rage stoked and maintained by teenage and adult tormentors who couldn’t estimate Cantey’s disposition and who didn’t, therefore, know when to let up, and at evening twilight of Easter Sunday, some tedious husbands with too much Jim Beam under their belts harassed a rabid bunny rabbit beyond the restraint Coach Bob had taught him.

“You ain’t going to believe this,” a neighborhood spectator called in to 911, “but they’s a big pink rabbit at a Easter Egg hunt in Hilsman Park steady kicking ass.”

Puzzled police arrived on a broken field of scattered egg basket and wounded fathers, an enormous bunny with a missing tail and one amputated ear hulking back to a white van full of lilies, slamming the door.

Vic Miller is a south Georgia novelist, humorist and naturalist. He lives aboard his sailboat “Kestyll,” often anchored near a Kuna Indian village off the Caribbean coast of Panama. He is a frequent contributor to Gray’s Sporting Journal.