I remember the
giddy romps, so
light and airy,
that used to
litter the vista.
I call them
portraits of a
frolicking dund
erhead, among
many other choice
titles, replete with
ribald epitaphs and
epigraphs, dropping
names as if I were
the very center of
every social circle,
in every news cycle.
Were those but the
picturesque displays
of a clown furthering
his education? Who’s
left to ask, I suppose.
As faded and fuzzy as
these distant visions
are to me, I can, and
with ease, feel the rush
of relevance these carefree
scenes once meant as if
each had expanded mean
ing still, but yet now I
have the—what?—the where
withal to see how vacant,
how unimportant, each
would, astoundingly,
and in reality and muted
retrospect become. I miss
those vivid landscapes
and the idiotic confidence
that being the very subject
of each instilled within me.
