[lit-ideas] SUNDAY POEM
- From: "Mike Geary" <atlas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- To: <lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- Date: Sun, 13 Jul 2008 22:52:30 -0500
JULY 13, 2008
I sit in a dive I call my office,
half drunk and thoroughly depressed,
as the IRS closes in on me
and my truck coughs in transmissonal distress.
Waves of nausea and despair circulate through me
obsessing my existential and physical life.
The unmentionable odor of my own sweat
offends this July night.
A little bit of truth on my part
would unearth the reason for my plight,
tell why I turned my back on success
to live the loser's life.
Find what I loved and admired
so much about my dad,
and you will find the thing that makes
everyone think I'm mad.
Murdered Martin and Mohandas,
and the manacled Mandela
knew that all the wondrous things
the good life can supply
are trash without self-respect.
And I have learned that self-respect throws back
always and unequivocally
tossed coins from the frivolous and passing rich.
I wish I had a voice
to undo the materialist's lie,
but all I have is this image
of man carrying an orphaned lamb,
rugged and needing a shave,
a man thick and hard of body,
a mountain-man kind of man,
but always so kindly
and ever with a grin,
a gentle, courteous man actually,
calm and almost always laconic,
but one who could never pass up a joke,
could never pass up the chance to stoke
a discussion with wicked sarcasm or poke
ironic holes in the assumptions
of those who pontificated.
He loved to laugh at self-importance.
He wasn't much of a reader,
but he wasn't stupid either.
so what if he wasn't awesomely bright,
he was the light that guided me through many a dark night,
the man I've always wanted to be
except not so poor, please.
Oh well.
Whatever it takes.
Mike Geary
Memphis
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