Few dare to praise his hair.
It isn’t that he doesn’t care.
He cares, it can be said,
more than a little that nobody
gives a jot or tittle for the effort
and the art it took him
to construct the sneaky part
he’s combed into the back –
to raise a certain curtain
on a metaphor for splitting hairs
in service of – alas,
alack! –
perverse misreadings of
the Cosmic Law. His hair
is a defense against this heresy:
a headlong vault into awakening
whatever passersby might be
induced to notice its implied
assault on immorality:
on the gestalt the current
zeitgeist thinks is truth.
He’d named his hairdo Ruth.
.
No comments:
Post a Comment