There was once a bustle around finger tips,
a brushing away, an intended forgetting,
unletting each previous permission,
forgiving away what trust was left,
and resigning to love only beyond the mirror,
where the clock is unwound.
I swear when I burn my fingers. But, every
week there is a morning I forget, and I spill
my coffee-water, and swear again.
I laugh when I turn my ankle, or grin.
Do I remember how to be earnest? I woke
my brother up when he was passed-out drunk
and took him to the airport and he made his flight.
But later I made it a story, and I laughed, and I
told him he was lucky I loved him--instead of telling
him I loved him--because I have forgotten how
to be earnest.
And now I'm thinking about whiskey, and gin,
and how I like them because they are dry and
sophisticated but also honest. I like the taste
of wood and juniper, and I wish that Wordsworth
had never written, so I could have just had
heartfelt pastoral poems myself. I want to
hatch a pastoral poem out of an egg colored with
dada and it will probably be about an Ostrich.
Like this:
The science of aesthetics dictates that an ostrich
with its head in the sand must maintain a background
of blue to compliment its warm and gritty ignorance.
Furthermore, it must position itself such that it stands
a third of the way across the waiting lions' field of view.
The lions wait and stare, unable or unwilling to cleave
the conformist composition with a splash of chaotic gore.
Only when evening winds have blown away the last strains
of color can they pounce and release their prey into the
carnality of now.
But, I have forgotten how to be earnest.
