Seventy-Three

Getting older every
year is wonderful
for the wrong reason,
resembling more

than anything else
an obligatory
donation to another
unworthy cause.

The parts keep
adding up to the
whole, forced
to do so by some

cranky old Greek
mathematician.

In Mid-Air

Wanting to simulate
sincerity, the
candidate plugs
his soul into

a wall-socket
nearby and switches
on the neon
sign above his

head.  Everyone
applauds in apparent
compliance with
the implied

command hanging
there in mid-air.

Imperfect

Our imperfect knowledge
of the future darkens
our description of
life as we know it.

Although we live
to die, none of us
is dying for a
chance to stop

living.  That one
word in the dictionary
no one seems
willing to look

up probably
defines us.

Philanthropy

I am always ready
to climb mountains
that are flat
on my way home

and to wade
across shallow
lakes that leak.
I willingly

lock myslef up
in a cell I can
easily escape from.
I do these things

for the good
of all mankind.

You're So Vain

Your insistence
that you are the
"you" referred to
in my poems

only strengthens
my resolve to
exclude you with
even greater emphasis

than before.  The
fact you are convinced
that you have to be
the "you" referred to

in this poem convinces
me that you couldn't be.

More Often

The same force
that changes the
minute to an
hour and drives

the flower through
some purely hypothetical
green fuse paints
my body pink.

I notice this,
of course, while
taking a shower,
something I seem

to be doing more
often than necessary.

Like This

The sound must
seem an echo
of the sense,
yes, but music

and meaning
must be dance
partners if things
that can't go

on like this
are to continue
going on like
this, if inertia's

to remain the
stepchild of surprise.