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.


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.

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