Monday, January 9, 2017

Poem


What They Say About Me

A nest egg of dumbasses, a family tree of buffoons,
a melting pot of morons, a swath of crackpots,
a body politic of imbeciles, a cabinet of incurables,
a dark night of peons, a tidal wave of ninnies—

I am the foghorn of a piecemeal mind,
the full parliament of self-deception, the provincial
nomenclature for “hootenanny,” depending
on the day.  I rock myself to sleep with the guinea
fowl.  I scratch my balls incompetently. 
Even my friends don’t want to know.  With only a vestige
of myself thinking, a curl of my hair catching sight,
a generous truism measuring my breath, and a cloud
of smog petrifying the distance, I stand. 
All the forces of the world specialize here.
All the fat men find themselves famished
for a thought of me.  The women fall asleep.
Doctors make specimens of my amusement,
breaking down the doors of selective breeding
to catch a glimpse of something like me.
I have two perfectly good hands.  I am wide-faced
and broad-brimmed, bounding through my brain’s
careful climate.  No one knows a hide-and-seek
spot denser than mine.  My contemplation
is paper thin.  I get nose bleeds sitting still.
If only a warm hand would calm me.  If only
I knew how genius feels to be alone.

Joel Fry

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