WHINE

Perpetually grinning old people,
their wrinkled faces postage stamps
for heavenly mail, know nothing

on their way to knowing everything,
and will only giggle if you ask.

My own marmalade, my life here,
and my struggle in it, answers
sugar for sugar. Confusing

as confused. In a big voice
I announce myself, I try
the questions on sideways.
I come and go with the light.

Because it is a gift. The art
to salvage dreams. An art
to ask nothing more. To know

the very carcinogenic words
we hide behind infect us
at such a gruesome rate. It is.

A gift that defies truth,
hope, friendship, courage,
beauty, purity of will,

satisfaction guaranteed, moral
outrage, and God’s clutter.
So when voluptuous women tell me
sly gossip their bones show.
I can hear the same late fable
from broken animals lying

in the road. If I can be
silent now, perhaps the universe
will have time to convince me

the jubilation of nuclei dolled up
to go dancing is a reason.
But perhaps not. I can only say;

if I hear the nearly lost strains
of delicious music far away,
announcing angels in the wind,
I can only say I’ll try

with all my heart not to laugh
my ugly ass completely off
when they hover into sight.