I daresay a day or so of
silence from you is an
unmitigated joy; it’s several
sheer pages of unmottled clarity,
a remedy for this year and next.
“Life is a Jumble Shop,” and
I’m too busy wedging Frank O’
Hara’s timelessly snappy coigns
into each well-intentioned day; I’ll
drum nary a knackered word of my own
into this chest, nor beat one, pithy or not,
into our veritable daily dough.
Why worry a jot over
kleptomaniacal tendencies?
I am perfectly satisfied just to
seek out that one clear frequency,
to pick up a clown-sized megaphone,
aim it in any general direction.
And transmit!
I do reckon there are occasional
incidental problems around which
to maneuver, but there’s clearly no
need to reinvent the all-glorious antenna.
I did have my mind on this
one thing, though,
that really needs to get fixed, but while
said slipshod mind cozily drifts off into
something like eloquence, watch closely
as the rest of me resoundingly remains
a fully functional and beneficent instrument of
conveyance. Meantime, how’d you careen so
magnificently, so sublimely out of control?
Hm. I do seem to recall some vague gesture
for direction, an ever-softening motion toward
relevance. But I’ve had a few kooky dreams since
then that I could have just mixed it all in with,
not to mention I’m as down with love as
either of us can ever hope to be. So cut out
that racket! I’ll be damned if you’ll catch me
screwing with my pitch-perfect reception!
