Monday, April 24, 2017


They've found the way now to make
paper from steel  -  for hard-hearted 
letters and bad-news notes. Right
here, at this bleak table where we
sit ordering wine, the menu is made
out of cork. It gets difficult to read,
but after a few uses is cheap enough
to throw away and replace. But there
are shadows on these forms that time
cannot erase : missives of philosophy,
and notes of dread and anguish.
When I was a young boy, thinking only
of being a clown, no one ever told me
about sadness and sorrow. I had to learn
them on my own. Now here I sit, to
order a red wine that's as deep-colored
as blood and caustic as the lye that
will eat through this cork.
I lean over and mention how I
love respectable failures : how only
the ones who have reached out and
tried can count as victory their failure
seen as loss  -  and by others discarded,
by others tossed. There is the site, I
mention, of the very best Pyrrhic victory,
to be.  Like the phoenix on this label, 
who rises from the embers of flame
and fury, only to rise again and be.

No comments: