Sometimes, not often, I’ve said this before but this time i really mean it. Ya gotta watch - listen to the vid. It really comes alive when you hear it.
Thanks but I won’t be attending.
I’m afraid I can’t, at the brink of the age of 67,
find much interest or purpose in what amounts for me
to paying transmogrified homage to having navigated
the fleet blur of four years of late adolescence near 50
years ago (with people I now mostly barely
recall) to jump, as if I couldn't
imagine anything more fun to do,
into a tug of war with other ‘classes’
(encouraged to behave like competing
intramural teams) similarly engaged
in what for the college is surely
the motive force: to see what
clutch of alumni donates the most dollar signs
to it. I don’t begrudge them this. Colleges
need lots of dough. And I’m graced
with the riches of unfathomed bliss
of a life in New York, skidding thrillingly
over the thinnest thin surfaces of a “fixed income” –
so fixed it has rendered me cleanly unable
to fit any niche which depended on
spending more than would
procure me a split,
grilled kielbasa, boiled sour-
cream-dabbed pierogi, Ukrainian
sauerkraut (misnomered: it’s a bit sweet)
at Odessa (at 7th street, Avenue A). In the odd way
I register lessons from life, though, I have to confess
that the high-handed forced shrill-toned snark which
slits under and into these over-wrought lines –
(oh do beware markedly visual strict-driven
grids clamped on "writing": as deadly
a march through the desert as college P.R.) –
bear the un-pretty tracks of defense scared of threat.
It resides in the fact I suspect I must here to the point
now espouse - I don’t like Christmas for just the same
reason I dislike the press of a college besieging us all
to love it. They're for people who barbecue chicken
and make love to those of the Alien Sex.
People with children.
I neither barbecue nor much like to fuck, but
I very much warm to, indeed am by rep held
by those with legitimate claims to a firsthand
experience, as a candidate rather more likely
than not to be placed at the head (the word
pointedly used) of the queue of things having
to do with the come-hither faux-pouty moue
of the Mouth.
From here it goes South –
as shall I go mid-May,
for a scatter of days, far away
from collegiate maneuvers,
august weights and measures –
to quite other pleasures:
oh to go!
go to, oh! -
where what I will do
my sly eye apperceives
(entièrement de ne pas
I won’t tell anyone (not even vous)
nor even the who whom I'll be apperceiving -
and who anyway needs no apprising of any
uprising, re-sizing, down-sizing or moue.
People don’t speak French in Mexico, Joe.
You forgot to learn Spanish, you twit.”