Lately, I’ve been trying to call
upon a less agreeable state of mind
which will find the seriousness in anything farcical.
But today, while sitting at my desk, I was too sure
I have to make a joke of farce,
if you know what I mean.
The truth is I have somewhat of an idea
of what it means to be happy.
Sure,
I’ve been told
to be happy is to make light of tragedy
by sort of flicking a swear word at a cloud.
But my friends pretty much keep to themselves
about things like that,
so I suppose I’m going to have to wait
to hear more about that one.
I’m not saying I’m ever going to find out either.
I mean I can always find the bright side of
loss, and it still remains beyond my understanding.
Which I suppose is why I pretty much know I’m writing
this poem to you, reader,
though I suppose
I’m also writing it to just about anybody,
including myself.
Haven’t I rambled on enough already?
What aren’t we in this half-light?
I don’t know for sure?
But these small red grapes I plop down my face
Do not pick on my skin like ticks plucked from a dog,
though they may resemble them,
though for all I know
grapes may very well be the little pests.
But I’m not going to make a joke now
by saying I may not know
what the hope I confuse myself for is,
since I really don’t feel that’s true,
and no I’m not totally at peace with that,
and no it wouldn’t be a super giggle
if each word I ever said
sported a tattoo on its lower back
which upon closer inspection revealed the direction
Enter Here.
To tell you the truth
I’m not sure any direction is findable.
the real subject is always you 