I enjoy this life,
I do
always looking forward,
with a lot of looking backwards.
I wonder why
people do
the things that they do
always thinking about
the things people say,

especially to me,
especially to me.

I am never set free,
except in poetry.
In that, I am thankful
spewing out trivial verse
(is there nothing worse?)
while scrambling
to find meaning,

meaning in life,
meaning in life.

Always screaming at life,
specifically my life.
(Shhh... don't talk of strife!)
I get inspired by you
yes you, oh gentle reader.
You know who you are,
and why you're here.
I hear your plaintive cry
and still wonder why

you won't talk to me,
talk to me.

What's wrong with a good conversation?
To that end, some elation?
I revel in the revelation
that becomes my lamentation.
(Always funnin' with the punnin')

The world goes to hell
in its proverbial handbasket
and I'm nto even vaguely religious
though that was not always the case.

Not always the case,
not the case.

These truths I cannot erase,
so I just soldier on
without ever fighting a war.
What, on the earth for?
I cry, I bleed, I heed
nothing but my own counsel.

In this I believe.

In comedy, there is tragedy,
and Dame Fortuna smiles
on us all.
I miss you, and never
even knew you.
Yet I try.

04/09/2013

Author's Note: ... an ode... I have been reading "Butterflies in the Typewriter"... about John Kennedy Toole, author of "The Neon Bible" and "A Confederacy of Dunces".... tragic....

Posted on 04/09/2013
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