The need for beauty

Does the world need a poem?

Does a boy need a girl?

Does the field need a flower?

 

Not really.

There are plenty of sour places

in the universe:

pools of acid,

shadows on the moon,

black holes that snuff out

the hottest suns.

 

Some of the darkest places dwell

within us, holes

that can never be filled

with love or wisdom.

There are bats in those caves

and something worse.

 

So I throw this petaled poem your way.

It pushes softly into your ear

and falls,

and falls,

and maybe its hope finds your heart

and you will have some beauty,

if for just a moment.

Signs of end times

You’ll find true love when you stop being desperate to find it, we’re told. By that logic Miss Right is right around the corner, or maybe hiding from the rain in the neighbor’s bushes, scoping me out with waterproof binoculars.

 

I haven’t dated for more than a year and don’t feel bad about it, so you see how that yarn about romantic apathy might give hope to my love life. But whoever dreamed up that saying wasn’t counting on hardcore introverts like me. A little desperation went a long way in reversing my natural tendency to avoid approaching anyone new, including women. Now I see an attractive female across the room and think: That would be nice; oh well.

 

That’s not a good sign at my age. They say that men in their 40s begin to disappear in the eyes of women. I’m sure the same thing happens to women as they age, and probably worse given society’s greater prejudice against older females. Still, invisible is invisible, and I’m beginning to see the floor through my feet.

 

And if no one sees me why give a crap about my appearance? Time to start wearing that one plaid shirt everyday. I’ll stop bathing and using deodorant. I’ll smell to you, but my nose will have long become saturated with the stink. I’ll grow a beard. It’ll be lousy with bare spots but the lack of shaving will save me five good minutes a day, time better spent scratching my armpits.

 

Chandler Bing from Friends had a name for what I’m becoming: Crazy Snake Man. That’s the guy who’s fallen so deep into his own inner orbit that he loses all touch with society and vanity and dwells alone in a house filled with pet snakes.

 

But all that is down the road. The next step is to start wearing tennis shoes with Dockers. When you see that you’ll know the end is nigh.

Call me Ramses

My mouth feels burnt. It’s like that every once in awhile, for a week at a stretch. Is it the swearing? The blasphemy? Do my poems about God anger The Man? Did He mark my tongue with His fiery finger?

 

I tell doctors about it but they shrug. That helps. So I diagnose myself: burning mouth syndrome. The self-explanatory name and lack of known origin give the condition a certain luster. Add it to my dermatitis and dry eye. All healing liquids are fleeing my body for warmer climes.

 

I’m turning into a mummy. Tomorrow I’ll have my organs removed and stored in cnopic jars. They’ll scoop out my brain through my nose, which is fine; no more worrying about work, women or the economy. They’ll store my carcass somewhere away from corrupting water. I’m hoping for Arizona, under a saguaro cactus, one of those big green fellows with muscled arms. I’ll make the cactus wave at locals, really freak out the kids. They’ll call it Scary Ghost Cactus.

 

It won’t be much of a life but when you’re the undead you get your kicks where you can. And until some sexy priestess calls me from my rest with a spell and her well oiled hands I’ll ride it out like that, just another dumb mummy hanging out in the wastes.