Men fight wars, watch sports and pursue a wildly adjustable standard of beauty that is grounded entirely on availability and their inherent sympathy for homely, unattractive women whose desperation can be spotted in dim light.Women sob about male insensitivity while carping pointlessly about the injustices biology has placed upon them.Men are keenly aware of this but do not care.
Every death
comes with its particular novelty.
While birth plods into life
with a ill deserved and sloppy exaggeration.
Tumbling incoherently through
the thick, sticky afterbirth
of the womb.
Each one shackled to incomprehension.
Still, we guess birth to be miraculous
while it’s endgame, death,
is reviewed as a misfortune,
conducted by a chorus of “if only’s.”
and the tardy howls of losing.
Of what good is the marvelous,
if you can’t, watch?
The extra part of God I brought back with me from pretty much dying in the hospital this weekend is sitting in the corner of my yard arguing with my dog.
When the Poet of Avon, Mr. William Shakespeare, awoke this very morning, he stumbled headfirst into brevity. Twitter.
In doing so, he doomed all other English playwrights, a primarily sterile ladle of plagiarizing snakes, to drone on while in morbid awe of him for all eternity.
The notion of premièring himself on this afternoon, as the writer of fewest words, flung him into malicious merriment. “I am now and forever will be a port-wine reduction sauce of succinctness.
“My genius is the tabernacle of the truncated,” he boasted,” I will leave the breadth of things to the freshmen.”
“Verily,” he bragged (too loudly, for his mother, now overhears him while hiding behind his bedroom door), “and forever, my works will be posted with nails onto trees in twenty-six words and less and will be known to the audience as “tweets.”
Hearing this vow, his mother, the severely verbalized Mary Arden Shakespeare, dismays.
Mary was a woman who could trace her long-windedness as linearly as an erection, back to the most crucial exercise of unnecessary human print, “The Doomsday Book.” She feared her son was maneuvering into a near-criminal puddle of abbreviated verbal sulkiness.
She slumped, legs splayed into bunches of skirts, muttering miserably to herself (wholly in Old English, to her credit), “I will not allow him an eternity of pithiness of verse.”
But Bill speeds by her, determined to stop his life’s drudgery of taxing inventiveness before she can interfere.
“Romeo and Juliet” was already rewriting itself in his mind as a love story that lasts only as long as a stick of sassafras chewing gum.
“Romeo has the scheme, parents will be sorry; R. fucks everything up, big mess, J. is an idiot The End,” was all it needed to be.
Shakespeare sprints to Stratford’s Speaker’s Corner to announce the new course for England’s scholarly conversation.
“Forever on,” Bill bellows to a gathering crowd of the muddy, toothless, and lice-infested, “My tragedies and comedies will come to you now nailed on trees. To be read as “Twits.”
“Be it known that if it must be said, I will say it from inside the prison of twenty-six letterings or less. And all will carry a dollop of gruel for authenticity. Henceforth to be understood as my “gruel tag.”
“My histories, poems, and essays will remain on my Facebook page.”
William Shakespeare.
Poetry is the last thing
That would occur to letters
that were mulling around
hunting for something to say.
Words, if pressed, would testify
that gathering to rhyme is
only for holidays.
Proud writers feel awkward
leaving only verse,
daggling statements that are
unsure of their periods.
But I prefer the short shit,
it pleasantly matches
the number of readers I have.
Men carry silence
in satchels
filled with oaths,
weaved loosely
from malice
All we are certain o
is that we have forgotten
why.
My life has been a child’s day
and I will be slow to fall asleep.
For many are the dreams that come,
and no cause to hurry.
Every death,
comes with its particular
novelty.
While birth
plods into life
with sloppy
inaccuracy,
tumbling incoherently
through thick,
sticky afterbirth,
shackled to incomprehension.
Still,
we guess birth
to be miraculous
while it’s endgame,
death
is reviewed as a misfortune
accompanied by a chorus
of “if only’s.”
and the tardy
howls of loss.
But of what good is the marvelous
if you can’t watch?
We are forever
guessing
if we are a song.
Nothing is soundless.
We suspect but are never sure
that our noises carry.
My whistling
may reach Neptune.
But Neptune, like God,
does not echo.
Birds don’t care so much
for their own songs.
They care about eggs
and nests
and the size of baby new wings.
Cicadas lullaby summer evenings.
But the night doesn’t pick up
their theme
and begin to dance.
Flies whizz
their little ditties
by our ears.
And we brush them away,
like eavesdropped insults.
The flowers
exhale their perfumes
into the winds
blinding the dazzled slave bees.
Nothing disturbs the evenhanded blizzard
that is being alive or the drama
of surprising death,
and the odd collisions with love.
She sits among her
snowflake suitors.
All sincere,
Each different,
Each the same
all waiting.
Until she finds
the one
that echoes her song.
Do memories
cast loose
by your life’s end,
wait bewildered
for you
to come back home,
Like pets at windows?
