Monday, 13 August 2012

Belly-aching

Learning to put one foot in front of the other again, learning to
stop the sages who yell faster faster faster for the express bus, for
the trains that leave in the morning.

I know a boy or two who taught themselves to sit and let their skin settle,
rounded up their molecules with a circus whip and cracked SIT

—or who am I kidding? There’s no sawdust, no trumpets and drumroll,
no announcement that now is the moment for peace (Ta-dumM!)

Trying to remember that lucky and happy aren’t synonyms one bit,
and Plato was a fool to believe in immutable forms.

Going to choose the giggle and guffaw of the Infinite Goof,
stop all this belly-aching and trying to prove the world I’m smart.

This girl can roll in the muck waiting for meteors to hit the moon
and waft off the assignments of the working week like
an American Indian wafting messages from the smoke of his fire.

Don’t forget: there’s no parrot on your shoulder demanding
sit straight and look busy.

The referee’s got no medals for a martyr with a scowl.


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