RUNNING, THE GERUND.
SEEKING, THE GRAVE
I'm miserable, and I don't know
why I'm here : holding a toolbox
of screwdrivers and nails, trinkets
which fit nothing, and hammers that
won't hit. This carnival forgot to leave
town, and is now dead. Relatives of
the familiar come and go. We are all
that we seem, and masters of small
domains who rule until the day runs
out. Navy boats and Army guns.
Would you even seem to care, if I
paid you to? There's something about
your sleazeball pet that I just can not
seem to trust. Sitting around, aren't we
each just learning to talk? Halloween,
and Easter, they mix together in my
mind. I see the people eating ham
again, and find that so unkind.
Harold Kenner is a comedy poet; all
his things rhyme, and his conduct is
funny. People laugh, and all the endings
merge. He writes only with certain things:
IamBic pens, he gets from France. The
sharpened pencils he uses are honed on
his wit. His wife works in the factory
at the back of his house. She so carefully
knits joke holders, and poetry doilies
for the backs of the chairs.
(I told him my Soul wanted
EZPass, before the big trip).