4.09.2008

Compliments from a bullfrog.

To talk about time so flippantly
like it's something to possess;
I was born there, too, you know.
The one thing we have in common
is who we'd die for--
you: rightfully
and me: still, and
proving it every day.
(Proving it's harder, brother.)
But most things don't turn
out as planned.

Most of us start out wanting to be more
than we ever will be, -ologists especially:
zoologists, marine biologists, paleontologists.
Me, my first unrealistic career choice was
to become an archaeologist, maybe because
I'd seen the Indiana Jones movies too many times.
In a way I've fulfilled that elementary school dream
if you look at it in the broader sense
of making a go at digging up the past.
Next came the FBI Agent phase. Imagine me
in a suit and tie with badge and gun
and hangover-- not quite what J. Edgar had in mind.
But again, maybe I still wound up trying to
bring about some sort of justice, warped as
it may be at times.
So then there was the teacher thing, to-date
the ultimate failure of dropping out
though I still find myself teaching
myself, mostly
about myself.
And now, in the grand scheme, the pipe-fitter
making substances move from Point A to Point B
more efficiently than the me of yore
with the aid of convenient tubes and pumps
and, yes, gravity riding it all
in the end
having the last word
which is something a writer would kill for.

And even then, I'm still no bonafide plumber.
At the union hall tonight someone asked
if I was a boxer. I didn't understand at first
until he mentioned the tattoo on my left arm.
I said it was on "some guy's" tombstone, failing
to mention that it was on the grave of my favorite author.
A true fitter would've laughed it off and thrown a jab
to the arm while changing the subject, though at least
I knew better than to deny ever stepping in
for a round or two. Not all prize fighters wear gloves.
Not all rings have ropes around them, though
the spectators are always there. (Stalk much?)

The black half of my rabbit's face has black whiskers
and the tan half shoots out tan ones, thus proving
to my chagrin, that there is in fact a God
and His hand is infallible. There, I think that's
how he would've ended it.
T.K.O.

Alas, I've had far too much gin
(if there is such a thing) tonight
for this to make sense
the way it did in my head.
I know this because I've played
the same song over and over
for the last twenty minutes.
That's
how Hank would've ended it.
Honestly.
Humbly.
(Do you still remember the song, Friend?)
Make that a K.O.

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