This is an edited version of the poem that first appeared in Fountain of Youth (Vine Leaves Press, 2016), p: 79–80.
I put on a smile and a tie in public.
The twinkle in my eye sure helps.
Slants on the side widen. Incomplete puns
evaporate in despair. We fail.
I would have been funny.
I would have been hilarious
in fact, if I still knew how
to express my thoughts in words.
Four words.
Slurry asides.
No exit sign
anywhere.
I hesitate to confess my flaws
in public. I fear the mortification
of my flesh, and I hear they’re salivating.
Where I come from, we call that Daesh.
Where they come from,
they call that Hollywood trash.
Pile on the calories motherfucker.
Are you thinking out loud or talking to yourselves?
My cat likes to stand on her hind legs.
I spend more time on my sides,
limbs resting on Indian cushions.
No doubt a profound insight
on the human condition. Who else
is forming paper snowflakes in the desert
and calling themselves
miracle workers?
Surely some revelation is at hand.
Surely the any-numbered coming is at hand.
Surely some illuminati beast from Bethlehem
is now charging toward Islam?
