The funny thing is...
...and it's not even funny
ha-ha, but a strange
humor, peculiar
to this type of odd person,
queer as an oilsheet
even, a touch, say
"My Melancholy Baby"
by Earl "Fatha" Hines
funny, I should say,
or mention such a sad song,
but we could just change
uninhibited
by social constraints, to talk
about the weather
not as common folk
but meteorologists
listening for a [beat]
neato bandito,
little burrito, I miss
your mouth, the fine lines
yet, not quite crow's feet
since you rarely ever smiled
mean little lady
to say the word 'suck'
sounds queer as a transverse wave
crest to trough, leather
hogs, as in pigskin
wallet, or maybe football,
what they play, here, say
in America,
not 'hearsay', as in a court
of law, I object
not within my scope
of practice, something I learned
just the other day
given I sell shoes
now to old ladies, and young
as well, I detect
in your sarcasm
a hint of... je ne sais quoi
it's a bit shady
say, to discuss, taste
or morality, like this
in a poem, no
and let us not speak
badly of the dead, and gone
off to do better
no, maybe, not that
even, not better, as life
is all we know now
decisively not
better to be in the grave
or ashes, on show
inside of an urn,
we learn, we learn, then we are
dead, this short life, spent
turning over soil
digging his own grave, with pen
in hand, a letter
sent via airmail
who does that anymore now
tip the sacred cow
not a 'shibboleth'
an ear of corn, as a test,
or an ear of wheat
or a stream, torrent
no matter, what does matter
political bent
to speak of ethics
in a poem, or of plums
breach of etiquette
ethics entertains
from the icebox to my mouth
so sweet turns so cold
vengeance, oh my God,
no, no, please share your idea
of God, my ticket
enter the movie
theater, to watch Williams
eat plums, what a bold
nature to subvert
poetry as aesthetics
for a better seat
funny, I should ask
for forgiveness, I pardon you
Amon Göth said
under no legal
obligation, in the film,
allegedly, shot
not with a camera
obscura but a rifle,
dark chamber image
not funny, indeed,
but delicious as wet plums
for breakfast in bed
yet, probably not
eaten but to imagine
conduct as a code
ha-ha, amusing,
as a pantomime, even
comical, a squat
as in broad nib pen,
Seamus wrote of his father,
not quite all the rage
ha-ha, not funny
digging for peat in a bog
at this stage, I wait
another dollar,
another day, the salt mines,
they were my abode
but I jest, to work
as others inside a mine
to dig potatoes
underneath the soil
the scent of fresh earth, of hard flesh,
of ripe fruit, of plums
to boil spaghetti
in a stainless steel stock pot
simmer tomatoes
add salt as needed,
oregano, rosemary,
sage, thyme, to add sums
strange as it may sound
don't forget some fresh basil
as on our first date
taste for savory
flavor, pasta al dente,
add some olive oil
rest for a moment
a long trek through the desert
people need water
angels don't exist
except as messengers cloaked
in spirit, voices
no one remembers
verbatim what they once said
I love your daughter
given your blessings
we will get married in May
Mother's Day, choices
eternally rest
in our previous actions
love comes to a boil
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