Thursday, April 20, 2017

He’d Named His Hairdo Ruth

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.


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