I confess to have written some dreadful poems.
I’ve abused innocent words –
kidnaped them, held them against their will –
captive, under deplorable conditions,
to suffer in horrible poems.
And I might have gotten away with it
if not for the vanity that compelled me
to incriminate myself
as I do now…
— Mike Cohen
UNCONSCIOUSNESS AWARENESS MONTH
SOCKS WITHOUT MATES DAY
Back when, if you died on stage, you did it before a live audience.
A mysterious beauty, the poem…
Suspicious, curious, fascinated,
we do what we must
to understand. But
analysis of beauty is not beautiful
There is scraping, cutting, and digging.
When whole, it is too hard to grasp.
The urge to take it to hand is too strong to resist.
We must insist. Must scrape, cut, dig
to make it comprehensible.
When at last we’ve seen enough
to satisfy our suspicion and curiosity,
we understand how grand a thing it was intact,
how terrible a thing we’ve done: The autopsy.
Sorry. We should at least have waited
until after it was dead.
But there are autopsies and then there are autopsies…
Two factors determine what constitutes a lifetime supply of anything:
1. how much you’ve got
2. how long you’ve got to live