Oct 28, 2011



Sent to you by terry via Google Reader:


via peterwesleysblog by PeterWesley'sBlog on 10/23/11

for Danielle DiGiacomo

Like cracked dominoes
the pompous find themselves together,
face to face, back to back, wearing
their insecurities like used clothing.
Each stand, caught in their own onuses,
their too willing desire not to be mocked,
and yet perfectly picked to be pushed
over with a mocking tongue,
the chance comment voicing truth
with a laugh.  At times all of us
wear those used clothes, those mantles
of self importance, self impotence;
a world created for self-defense in bluster.
The lady laughs; she shows me
their simple garments cover quivering
minds, a feeling of weakness,
a humility each deserve and is shown.

In the Tarot the Joker is number zero.
A perfect number, no value unless
added to or subtracted from
by life's careening babbles, it's sad
and funny scenes of empty rooms
full of the howls of babies
in grown-up suits, each hurrying to be heard.
They name themselves for avocations
they cannot hope to achieve, and yet,
in circle jerk fashion they praise each other;
awarding each other a promise of love
or a free dinner of nervous bravado.
The lady laughs; she shows me
a world beyond fragile ego, beyond the cries
of "Pick Me! Pick Me!"; the lonely
crowd that gathers around itself, it's needs
to be shown and not shown an image
in the funhouse's honest mirror.

Those who govern us, those who control
the clutched purses and empty wallets, becoming
the littering lost finding our cities as ruins.
They know to pull every string, right, wrong,
every definition that can be conceived
or cannot; they dance none too closely
to an edge outside their human awareness,
their wish to possess and yet not hold.
The run our world like chipmunks playing chess;
without rudder, the large ship
becomes a weapon without guidance,
a floundering of souls each wanting to leave
but without the tickets to the next show.
The lady laughs; she shows me
a row of picked flowers with titles,
the elect and the controlled, each by itself
equal, together a blaze of colors with
the loudest seen garish and first.

For those who listen life becomes
a punch line, each move timed well,
or poorly; chance becomes a lead in,
a set up of sorts, to the grandest joke
we all live daily but cannot perceive, cannot
admit through our own used clothes,
our own desire to be recognized in the mirror.
The lady laughs; for us she shows
a deepening truth in a smile, the wonderment
of our own folly, our own greasepaint faces,
our willingness to live beyond our abilities.
There is hope in that laugh, a dream
of a life without pretence, without
a withering glare of defense too easily placed
in the eyes of the less secure, the less
than what we need to be. She laughs and
in her laughter I have found a truth:
All of us can be funny.


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