jellybean john has died
there are no more snowmen made of walnuts
and the libraries are full of sedated children and space
all that remains is the trickle of fork-and-spoon mobiles
"I married a mermaid, you know,"
now a widowed fish cradling your pennies
your treasures
toy airplanes made of rusty gears and screws
your retard joy
we all gasped when you tried to kiss the head librarian
your generosity was the butt of jokes
with neighborhood kids who steal cigarettes from their parents
computer porn and a turd in the elevator
i'm older now and still have nothing to offer the world
besides nakedness beneath a down comforter
on a cold morning
i buy overcoats and ingredients for dinner
i walk the same path home every day
somewhere in my mind your fabulous creations still spin
careening through a world
where everything is simple
and no one is ever embarrased.
Author notes
anyone who has ever worked at a public library in a small town probably understands this poem a lot.
Comments
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How Very Nice
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i'm older now and still have nothing to offer the world
besides nakedness beneath a down comforter
on a cold morning
i buy overcoats and ingredients for dinner
i walk the same path home every day
this is poetry- just lovely and simple
poetry.
m
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somewhere in my mind your fabulous creations still spin careening through a world where everything is simple and no one is ever embarrassed.
I enjoyed that. I enjoy libraries too and being naked beneath down. I enjoy good writing and you appear to enjoy being able to write well. I will stop now before this turns into some weird speed dating site. I am a Capricorn and I enjoy farting – if you are Torus and nasally dead please call me, I am home most evenings destroying what’s left of the ozone layer.
And you can just bottle this sentence as it is brilliant
jellybean john has died there are no more snowmen made of walnuts and the libraries are full of sedated children and space
PS & Ed is spot on about this - In the artist's world, embarrassment is the cardinal sin.
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POPCORN.
The library can be a very stupefying place, what with the habitual leafing through pages, the sedative whispers, the coarse, mute carpet or worn planks on the floors. It is a microcosm of life, really. Everyone points and gasps at the noisy troublemaker, secretly thankful for the interruption and the opportunity to imagine onself as other. Also the reminder that we are not who we seem but, instead, wild retards exercising control.
In the artist's world, embarrassment is the cardinal sin.
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