Brian’sPoems

A.i.

I sit in wonder.
Often.
I wonder about you.
I wonder what will make me laugh tomorrow.
I wonder what makes me mad.
(In my angst I found Zeppelin. What will I do if the levee
breaks?) I wonder why Vegas is the modern Mecca. So I have
this affair with letters.
(Yet nothing seems to improve with ink.)

Walpole tells me that the world is a tragedy to those who feel,
but a comedy to others who think-I am on the fence.
I have been across the Continental Divide all the way to the City
of Angels where I saw no divinities but the Ocean, who refused
to swallow me.
Tolstoy tells the weeping Indian in Santa Fe, if he wants to
be happy, be.
(Now he sells his magic and soul on a chain.)
Therefore, I must refute Carlyle’s theory that the essence of
humor is love and not contempt.
(At least as it now stands.)

Sometimes I get so tired of the hypocrisy, competition,
and apparent neutrality that I want to scream.
(Who would care? Who will read this?)
Snarl.
My savage innocence begets a poisonous clarity.

I sit in wonder.
When the sunshine lifts the foggy sadness, it will all have
seemed so silly...