This is me speaking less:
I want to float on a joke.
At a certain, early point,
sit in the back of the room
with a cigar, a wheat beer, a cheer;
make a punchline the emotion
that will carry.
I have no audience save those
who turned the century with me.
I sidestep catalogs and categories–
mawkish poet, wistful drunk, memoir child,
who argue for advice too loudly or too late,
who won’t challenge the orderly sequence.
Logic languishes like sunlight sieved through fog.
Coiled into this darker morning,
I stir the words that seek silence, seek approval,
that maneuver the message beyond
endurance, insult, the obvious injury.

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