“I can Write A Poem Anytime I Want”

Let’s see if this is true.

Let’s see if I’m lying to myself.

Of course, maybe nothing I’ve ever written

is actually a poem, maybe just

discursive gymnastics, 

verbal theatrics

goofy language,

sparks from the void,

monsters from the Id,

rants of an old man

with too much time 

on his hands.

I do love words the way some love

colors (I do love colors)

music (I do love music)

sports (……………nah).

I’m a comedian wanna be

transitioning from serious comedy

(an oxymoron! I love those!)

As the need to explain to others

grinds to a halt, over time,

because of diminishing returns,

and the hand becomes my mouthpiece,

the joy of bringing joy

seems more fun, and

better communication,

like fresh food instead of packaged,

like reality instead of entertainment,

(reality television, another oxymoron!)

and everything falls into place

spontaneously, with little effort,

“Frankly, my Dear, 

I’d rather be eating a hot dog”

becomes part of:

“Eat, shit, and sleep….

anything else is none of your business”,

Meaning: everything is perfect.

It all depends on how you look at it.

In conclusion,

something just happened between

computer keys, my mind, and a screen.

If this was a joke,

it would have a punchline now.

I guess it isn’t.