Ignore the alternating dross and gold
which we insist on judging—one thing good,
another not. Where is zen’aku-funi
when we really need it—
every new behavior wins a prize?
“Who are you anyway?”
The trophy’s meaningless
but that’s the point. Distinction is illusory,
so let’s just shrug if not rejoice
at twists and turns instead
of clutching pearls and gnashing teeth.
“Who are you anyway?”—
not less or worse! More stoic, cryptic,
not as bon vivant. Poetic—imagist,
absurdist, incrementally emancipated
from the algorithms of the temporal
and cogent sequitur?
“Who are you anyway?”
“Your game’s got out of hand,” my wife
laments. “I’m losing you to psychogenic,
fantasy, placebo symptoms of dementia!
Look, you made your point.
We are prepared. Now stop.”
…to continue
full poem @ https://docs.google.com/document/d/1G1hovB0ooFgJt-s9VkxOQwYT1E1ga4bqSF5nWm1Wjw8/edit?usp=sharing
