Save the Poet

i found her somewhere in Indiana
nowhere in particular really
doing a slow ride on a long trapeze
on the side of an empty road

i sat bemused in a folding lawnchair
next to her lesbian friend
i think the entire gang was queer
to some degree
or to every degree
whatever

some would pass by carefully
getting a good long look
at the faggot on the high ropes

some would stop by briefly
but just to get going
in the other direction

there was a fair down the road
and the barker was to
direct traffic to the show

somehow he got it wrong
which was just as well

it seemed odd to me
that in such a small town
with really nothing to keep track of

that the one place
lit up in the darkness
and lined with sequins
was lost on all but myself

i suppose in the country
the bright lights are left for the moths
and the cocky and daring
and the ego

the amazing endless egos of small children
hoping one day to become adults

without ever learning to see
save the blind

or walk
save the legless

or hear
save the deaf

or talk
save the mute

or write
save the scientist

or achieve
save the poet

this is a good marriage

i used to hear my father say her name sometimes
when he spoke of the good fat bellied women
who tended to modestly priced restaurants

her name spoke like white rice
garnished with a spoonful of lemon gravy

though i was not poor or starving
i pocketed some cellophane wrapped crackers

they now sit idly in the lower side of the left side pocket of my shorts

i see worry when i see her
but joy nonetheless
from the old pillow fights of smelted love
and from generous sips of anxiety
and copious and yet delicatly placed pictures of her lord

the old man is failing to see some things
but he wields fancy contraptions
that he may see them still

the old woman is failing to hear some things
but she covers her ears
that she may still hear the gentle clipping of heels
and clip back as necessary
which is to say always

if i am afflicted by something life does to me
am i to insist that i know best
and contradict a blow to the head
and will myself verticle?

i think this is probably true of riding horses
but at what point do we seek to avert our natural limits?

i really cannot say
but this is a good woman
and this is surely a good marriage

The faster we get you in the ground, the sooner I can walk all over your dead ass.

Dear Grandfather,

I know this may come as a surprise, but your dead ass is not stirring any tears from my tired eyes. Between trips by foot to the local library and halfway reading and scoffing at classic literature, I barely find time to make my end meet. And please do get me started on the family. I would so enjoy to remove another useless patch of hair from my head. It's weight is so oppressive to my aching head. With so many nightmares to choose from, it is hard to imagine which family member I would be better to nestle up to, that I may shuffle through old magazines and newspapers, and pictures of people they didn't spend enough time with.

I hope you are enjoying a good laugh on the behalf of so many people who have taken breaks from clipping coupons and smoking pipe tobacco purchased at local gas stations. I hope you are enjoying a good laugh on account of so many wandering pricks who have their dicks caught in rotten egg pussies and unwashed asses. Mostly though, I hope you are just enjoying a good laugh.

How tired were you then to think that marrying off your sons to potato farmer's daughters would bring anything but starvation and baked frozen french fries? What encouraged you with the sorry idea that dying in the wafting of a glorious fart of money and booze and discount filter menthols was somehow genuine?

Do not fret old man. I see you are wise.
Do not fret old man. I can see that you are still hungry.
Do not fret old man. Your militia is unarmed and unpaid, but they are fed and warm.

I hope you are happy.
Oh I do hope so.
But I say so for fear it is not so.
Though I know you are so.

My jaw is not rusty.