~~~
catchy title
true story
a slow and steady, cowardly,
a non-ninja turtle-style plan
way to die
a sophisticated methodology to the
successful completion of an
unassisted suicide
~
rationalizing it to the dickens, thinking:
it is a far, far better thing that I do,
than I have ever done; it is a far, far better
rest that I go to
than I have ever known
neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stayed this courier from the exceedingly slow completion of his appointed rounds
for the millstones of the gods grind slow, but they grind exceeding fine
~
so let's make
a merger, an acquisition:
a world with only
endless horizons,
catch no break, none offered,
Great Lakes gray everyday,
bleak and no break,
the working stiff,
(how apropos!)
does not even bother to look away,
for the well lit gloom
of the northern night lights that
permit no sleep,
offer no rest,
she slow ground him down,
exceedingly fine
and you say over over,
this is a far far better thing I do
~
except for the refrigerator light,
always warm, welcoming,
with a bartender's greeting
"What's your poison gonna be today?"
at 2:00 am
the eyes,
your FDA unapproved guide
to face stuffing,
no one there to say,
cease and desist
to what is
hidden, invisible, disguised...
~
no one
ascertained his subterfuge,
his strategic goal,
his tactical initiatives,
his motivations,
how he employed business school planning and training,
to rid himself of an
existence of
indentured servitude to a devil
(an old joke, reversed engineered:
says one farmer to the other,
you know that horse I had?
trained every day to eat a little less,
finally, got him down to practically nothing,
the nerve, he upped and died!)
imagine this,
(though for him, no assembly required)
waking up early to rush happy to work escape,
returning home, and from the moment one
emerges from the subway,
on a few block walk home,
becoming transforming engaging seething
anticipating the rage at the
***** hell
that awaited
~
"Je suis désolé, mais je n’ai pas le choix
Je suis désolé, mais la vie me demande ça
I am sorry, I don’t have a choice.
I am sorry, life asks/demands this from me"
~
patience your watchword,
time your greatest ally,
in the war you waged upon your self,
chained/locked
by you
keys discarded
~
who knew?
someone dug an escape tunnel
named for me,
it just took forty years long
to find the entrance
~
ah yes, all's well, that ends well,
even though he did not save himself,
but an accidental tourist,
slung an arrow of outrageous good fortune,
orbiting,
found his bullseye,
ending his one act show
that ran for decades,
with no intermission,
his misfortunate, blue period.
~
why else could this delightful poem be
so playfully written?
~
the real answer to
why this poem, why now,
solutions to those test questions,
comes
in his next poem,
this a mere introduction,
a stage set,
laying out my qualifications to
write a poem hopeful,
for only those who have known hopelessness
are genuine qualified to offer up hope,
one that will begin
'a long time, long ago'
titled
"oh ye of little hope/the worth of you"
~~~
July 15~19, 2015
NYC/Shelter Island
The stanzas and lines in italics are not my work, but famous enough for you to recognize them.
Spot a typo? Be atypocall! Let me know...