A well in-doubt
top rubbed my words
into the butcher’s
white foam.
—Robert Glück
I can be funny. I mean
I am a pretty comical guy.
Perhaps what I really am,
more than just about any
thing else, is a clown. It’s
not that I take great pride
in my comedic timing (I, too,
can pause until the laughter
has died down just enough)—
whatever, I could be funny on
stage, with a good script. I
love laugh out loud funny. As
for my senses and sensibility,
it’s about as high up on the
catharsis scale as it gets. But
am I funny? I can do dork
humor, which, like dad humor
is famously not that funny, is
renowned for thinking it pretty
hilarious when the humor lies
in, well, in the dork, dad or
dorky dad believing in the joke,
dry as it might be. Who wants
to be known as a guy who calls
himself a poet? That’s not the
way I’d want to be known. Or
would it be? If I had to choose
between thinks he’s funny (right)
and calls himself a poet (not
that anyone would know). Or
even if I am pretty good at
writing these, on occasion, I’ll
admit it: the rockstar I want
most to be is a stand-up. One
that gets actual laughs. But I
think only because I know I’ve
gotten plenty of them. I have.
Be it on-stage during a perform
ance of some sort, somewhere
amongst a few people at a party,
or hanging with one of my old
friends. The key, it seems to
me, is not to come across as
taking it all too seriously.
There seem to be a lot of
humor-free poets out there.
I might like a few of them,
enjoy their work, make an
extra effort to read a volume
or two by these serious folks.
But, in general, there seems
to be something truly lacking
with what these folks send out
into the world. Maybe there are
times when we should not be
laughing. Or maybe, decorum
be damned, a titter or two is the
only thing standing between an
awful day and one that cannot
be remembered without some
warmth, and a fondness, a
nostalgia, that can’t but spread
at least a partial smile across
that gorgeous face of yours.
—Robert Glück
I can be funny. I mean
I am a pretty comical guy.
Perhaps what I really am,
more than just about any
thing else, is a clown. It’s
not that I take great pride
in my comedic timing (I, too,
can pause until the laughter
has died down just enough)—
whatever, I could be funny on
stage, with a good script. I
love laugh out loud funny. As
for my senses and sensibility,
it’s about as high up on the
catharsis scale as it gets. But
am I funny? I can do dork
humor, which, like dad humor
is famously not that funny, is
renowned for thinking it pretty
hilarious when the humor lies
in, well, in the dork, dad or
dorky dad believing in the joke,
dry as it might be. Who wants
to be known as a guy who calls
himself a poet? That’s not the
way I’d want to be known. Or
would it be? If I had to choose
between thinks he’s funny (right)
and calls himself a poet (not
that anyone would know). Or
even if I am pretty good at
writing these, on occasion, I’ll
admit it: the rockstar I want
most to be is a stand-up. One
that gets actual laughs. But I
think only because I know I’ve
gotten plenty of them. I have.
Be it on-stage during a perform
ance of some sort, somewhere
amongst a few people at a party,
or hanging with one of my old
friends. The key, it seems to
me, is not to come across as
taking it all too seriously.
There seem to be a lot of
humor-free poets out there.
I might like a few of them,
enjoy their work, make an
extra effort to read a volume
or two by these serious folks.
But, in general, there seems
to be something truly lacking
with what these folks send out
into the world. Maybe there are
times when we should not be
laughing. Or maybe, decorum
be damned, a titter or two is the
only thing standing between an
awful day and one that cannot
be remembered without some
warmth, and a fondness, a
nostalgia, that can’t but spread
at least a partial smile across
that gorgeous face of yours.
