As I (as we all) pretend to do backflips
on the cold summer tarmac, I
(mustn’t the rest of us?) never confront my fears
until presented with Yogi Bear vitamin gummies
shaped like Boo-Boo and picnic baskets
in four assorted colors (though they all taste the same).
I had a friend one time who insisted that each color
had a unique flavor profile just based upon
the way light reflected off its surface–
I no longer consider that person to be my friend.
Well, as long as I say I’m in the running, nobody has to know that I haven’t even picked up my legs since the fourth grade. If I’m truly in. The Running. I won’t have to justify myself to these silly peoples for any longer than I have to, now will I? No, not at all. I’ll be in that running while they’re all just running scared (though they don’t necessarily have to be running either). You know, I’d like to think that this whole time in the running has been an educational one, but I’d just be fooling myself. I’ve become too wrapped up in all those surface matters that certainly don’t matter much to anyone aside from those Nielsen executives who could use better ratings for their 7:30-8PM EST slot on Wednesday nights. It seems as though the nasal-voiced smarmy millennial girls just don’t have the same impact they did a few seasons ago, so we have to come up with an alternative (yet equally vapid) stereotype to exploit for the entertainment of millions of Americans who tune in just because it’s something to do at night. Heaven forbid they expand their horizons at all (what horizons?) before they crap out and dream about having their throw pillows stolen by Barack (Hussein) Obama.
This blankness, this
never-ending stare
into the abyss–what is it?
It can’t just be me
on the precipice of nothing,
there has to be something there.
Even if it’s just a robot
with a kindly smile
and a flashy old bowler hat,
that’s enough for me.
To tell a glitter salesman that he has no shame is rude?!
I’ve been insulting these guys for 64 years, and you’re just now telling me this?
I’m not going to change my mind. I’m too old to think so hard about things. I remember when I was a young man, and the typhus made me see pretty angels until the doctor brought me back. Oh my, was that something to see. I never did see those angels again, but I think they’ll be around when I croak.
I had too many mangoes on my mind
to make a rational decision
about myself and
the proprietary methods
with which I interact
on a daily basis.
Those mangoes
were simply too juicy and complex
to worry about pressing matters.
I could have eaten mango
through a cattle drive
through a parlor trick
through a root canal
through a minotaur
until all known mango
in the universe
had been consumed by me.
Maple loop dragon rolls steep fervently
in the grandiose multiplicities
that we find ourselves around
in a constant way,
though not buttered with finance or treason.
You might find it subtle
to fly through emperor penguin hats
while announcing the arrival
of the next Dalai Lama,
but your associations
with professional authoritarians
may fall flat upon impact.
Nevertheless, that shouldn’t stop
your vague forays into the kind fireplace
we call matrimony. Settle down,
raise a dozen schnauzers
and investigate the true meaning of Christmas.
Is it the endless possibility
forged in the stream of creation?
Is it because we know
that our job as poets
will never be done,
and those poems won’t write themselves?
A combination of those
leads to stagnation,
the unwillingness
to accept a spot
in the pantheon of heightened thought.
Those people who wrote their works
and died long ago
are the same people now,
just in different clothes.
WHARVED 