Porn Without Hands
Speed fills weekends with days and nights.
Speedway voice-overs like Tom Raworth
highlighting your life’s events. It’s astounding
being forty-one. Sure, I am here, like always.
Think about always. Always.
I’m very good at comparing degrees of selfishness.
Very is for arrogant. And that I can reason my way
down the spectrum toward “much diminished with regard to
her and him”. Hooray. Four stars
(five would be too too).
I could smell the trees and hear the birds on campus.
When that becomes so striking that I notice I’ve
dropped my pastoral pretensions and lo
I am a small town boy I should get to know
it’s time to watch anything with Andy Griffith.
When the birds call me back to school.
Speaking of rejecting Academia for academia
(or is it the other way around), I just finished
George Stanley’s At Andy’s last night and it was
sooooo good.
Like how Facebook can remind you that you
really do have an assortment of friends, it’s
always nice to be reminded that there are
heroes aplenty. Before a gentle reminder
to walk on over to the bookshelf, let’s use our
bloated left brain to problematize this stanza.
A graph or two would be handy.
“Gemini, I love thee.”
“Why, Sparky, you don’t taste so bad yourself.”
