Poetic Reflections: the rise of the fall

Some of my column intros actually make sense. And then there are those that go skipping off in their own misdirections through fields of shruggeries and flowered flumpheries, amid the bognacious trills of stalkish stumpenings, and none of us can begin to beguine the forethoughts of the afterworded math we didn’t do, or subtract it all up to glean the nonscientifical methods behind the madness of pie. And never NEVER ask their hat sizes! You simply have to sit back and let it go, let it be, set it free, try not to set it on fire, because there is no stopping the loopy linear loco Zeitgeist Express once it has left the station. It says so between the illusive wavy dancing dotted lines and the tortuous tortoise penguin undertoes of the present tide of rip-snorting tantamounts. Just go with the flow, I advise. If you can’t read the blatantly balderdashed bold-print invisible-inked writing on the wall, you’re out of luck. For that is the way the bewildebeest wanders. And the mockingbird whippoorwills. And that is enough of that. Really. I’m sitting on the box that all of that thinking just popped out of, attempting to contain it for the sake of humanity or sanity, perhaps Pete too. Let us shuffle off to purpler pastures and pretend this ever happened once upon a teatime.

You get the gist. The jest. The driftbucket of the buffaloonery of a tub of three blind chicken-mice or men of the cheesecloth sailing out to sea with a side-order of curds and whey to go with their evil Antipasto. Or something. (I seriously wonder about you if you are still reading this, by the way. Seriously. More than I may have wondered the last time. If there was a last time. Well, there’s a first time for everything so I assume there would be a last time.)

All right, now I have gone too far! There is no such thing as a chicken-mouse! But if there were a chicken-mouse, would it squuck or would it cleak?

Perhaps we should ask the emu. I cannot tell you how many times I have asked an emu for an opinion and received a mute response. It said nothing quite clearly, I heard it. Which is actually rather unheard of and therefore should not be spoken of again. So keep it to yourself. Under your hat if you have one. If you don’t, I suggest you get one. But not from me. I am very attached to my hats. I use staples or Elmer’s Glue. Sometimes thread. Though that can get tangled up in the sticky web of the thoughts I weave, which are generally a bit moot. Have I told you this before? I can’t be sure. I have recurrent déjà vu.

Oh, and not to mention the monkeyshined chickadees swinging by their tail-feathers on a star from the moonbeams of songbirds who forgot the lyrics and can’t whistle a tune. Keep that quiet too.

Or we could just rewind. Yes, a do-over. A restart. Let us stop the muckrakish mudslinging hashmarks of mentalicity, if you don’t mind. If you do mind, then nevermind. We’ll ignore I said that. Or did you? Somebody said something! Whatever and whoever it was, I think it is best to take a double step back and think twice. Second thoughts can be so enlightening. They can also be redundant. They might even make you think again. Okay, I guess they usually do. But that’s beside the point. Oh no, did someone mention “point”? Why must there always be a point???

It is my staunch belief that there can be no point, no point at all! Who’s with me?

Wow, it got very quiet all of a sudden. Now nobody has anything to say? Don’t you find this awfully convenient when somebodies were saying somethings a minute ago?

Okay, I can take a hint. Points are well and good, sure. At the least they can be sharpened like a pencil. Or an arrow. Yes, arrows are good because they point. So there it is! Are you satisfied? Was that pointy enough for you?

(Just had to roll my eyes at myself.)

Fine, I am going to write some poetry. And the less said about what wasn’t or was or might have been said here or there, the better. I think that about says it all. But I’m sure I will find something else to say in my verse. This is only the introduction, you see. Which implies there will be more. But what if there wasn’t? What if I wrote silent poems? Would your mind fill in the blanks? Would the absence of verse make a statement by lacking a statement? Would it create a poetic paradox? Well, that might be interesting . . . But if there is one thing I know, it is that I cannot be silent as a poet or a proser. My versening and verballing brims and bursts and bubbles and froths and hiccups with resonance. Like chewing gum. You cannot get rid of it once it is in your hair. So mark my words, you should probably run.

(Many people these days have little tolerance or time for nonsense, it seems. I find that absurdities, like a good story or book, can elevate normality to the sublime. I appreciate your taking this moment to share some with me.)

Okay then. Here there be poems. And they might, I say might, even make sense!