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,
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
To tell you the truth
I’m not sure any direction is findable.