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stork daddy
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Morning’s a bit stale,
Mainly the night was fresh.
Reading calvin and hobbes online-
A calvinball episode,
You can win on the fly,
You sing when you play,
Hobbes is both a tiger and not at the same time.
A testament to his art that it’s fluid enough
That books aren’t written on the subject.
On tv the people come and go talking of Sanjaya –
An im conversation with my friend –
He got a promotion for getting the bald eagle off
The endangered species list.
Another one pops up, with hungry gopher comic effect
“marriage?! Did it really come down to marriage?!
Lol”
I know I know I type back with theatrical impatience –
“Must we use the rotted names?”
Don’t think about it.
My entry on camus in wikipedia was removed again.
For arrogance.
Or inaccuracy, one being an egregious
Form of the other.
Apparently writing “monsieur camus c’est moi”
Is arrogant.
They’re talking about some school tragedy
On sportscenter. Something with numbers.
Then a boxing highlight.
I always liked that line from Rocky
“it’s a hurting game.”
So you picture the dim light
Streaked faces, wan and moving
Who hurting anyways want in.
And so no, I don’t think I agree with the premises of your big question camus –
It’s a bullshit question.
And neither does Buddy Holly –
Good to listen to on stale mornings –
Like a hit of a huff of happiness.
Disturbing as little as possible in the world –
Just your ears and a small corner of your mind –
Usually I have to use the world
(Just once, it’ll be just once, and I think it should be
soft and upon your neck. That way the meaningful look
can’t help but be included)
To move some long Byzantine pulley
That then monty python fingers a happy switch –
But Buddy Holly, oh boy, even when you’ve forgotten
Long road trips as a child where your mom would play
The album twelve times over,
Goes right to the switch all deus ex.
So I daydream,
And it’s the fifties, and nuclear humor is the rage,
Yeah that’s exactly it about Buddy Holly -
Vacuum packed happiness – tv dinnered.
But there I am in Bermuda shorts,
And I’ve got the house pink flamingos
Wife – all the fixings, same store. It’s great.
Watching tv, albert lebrun dies,
Maria hertogh riots.
Quaint stuff.
And I’m distinctly hoping for something better,
And maybe even accept something worse.
“what’s on your mind honey?”
and martinis were had, because it’s not dinner yet,
and so I have a brief window
where you could and should
actually say or do something –
but you don’t, unpleasantries etc.
and so now a thousand days
where it doesn’t matter what I do or say.
No, I am no Antonin Scalia, nor was meant to be.
I had a kid in this reverie,
Of indeterminate sex.
I remember thinking if that ever happened you should say something
Inspiring to them, to take out into the world,
So like, a little bit Byzantine pulley and a little deus ex,
And I settled on…”be true to yourself, champ.”
Or should it be specific and imbued? A blue guitar doesn’t mean
As much these days as a fender stratocaster.
No for ritual, go with the classic.
But I should practice I think.
So you look in the mirror,
“be true to yourself champ.”
And it works a bit. I seem as dead faced sincere
Saying it as I should,
And I even react as a child might upon hearing it –
A wince of embarrassment and then
An acceptance of the offering.
And we’re good for thousands of days.
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