Dear laughter,
the truth is
that all
I’ve got is you,

and all I want is that,
until I have it and then

I am throwing everything
up in the air, like diamonds
that signify hate and slavery and shit,
that I don’t want again.

The truth is you
are all marrow and
the most succulent dance
is just to look,
not stare or gaze,

just know
you, as friend and equal,
to experience the wretched
and the good through
your eyes.

I’m too in love to be a sociopath.
I’m on the margin kick always,
just filling in the time with notes.

You are a caricature that betrays definition
because you eat the original form
and recreate unique, irreproducible
mockery of that once thought impervious.

You are a kick in Plato’s “Honor,
de Balzac” and the Secret can’t
touch you with it’s big, ugly, white
finger of cable television decay
on either a good, or bad day.

Your chorus I realized my total
absorbed addiction to,
when I learned to be the joker
in grade school.

At first it was concerned with
survival. But eventually it transcended
into pure Darth Vader evil.

And finally, in the closing act,
it redeemed me, Scrooge-style,
and left me knowing that if all else failed,
I had friends whose guts I could make
sore for days, if I could just get
the material down, straight.

I learned everything the hard way.
Lippy in entourage, holes in jip rock
and a dozen dirty, hesitation marks.
I crept up on good and whispered my offer,
and got a good beating or two, almost asunder.

I lived in the grass of fool.
I emptied my friends bottoms into my chalice,
and I always shut it down.

I’ve argued with people for hours
but I’ve kept the crowds
heart on the bellowing ball
of you, unfolding like a trick,
like a con, like something
close to magic, and I lost
sight only briefly,
of the real point.

To let loose.

To effectively take
back the moment.

From bird of pain or bird of sorrow.

Come find me tomorrow.

All that jazz.