Self-Made Fool

(For Mr. Rhetoric, green eggs & Sam)

 

November and a clear day, even warm

on my skin

the waking light of morning

not having dined on true and defined

conversations / most of which are scattered

and dank-star,

clapping, clip-clopping-chops

of rhetoric man

lost as the cool kid / maintaining

the rules he had learned

before his shoes

were "Fallen" / tied / blackened...

 

Few words he said made sense

and he communicates with made-believed

self-conceived weaving of mouth

"Down 4 dat" (four-fingers signed with a wink)

"Zap!" and says "Right on!"

when he is admitting he is wrong...?

 

Still his smile is constant,

although I can feel / his impartial

body drift / eyes closed

to erect his comfortable immobility

out of sight, out of Now /

I am sure he does not know himself;

nothing he tells me / about "History"

he has read

he believes

doubt and shagrin;

I know that what I have said

to him / will be forgotten...

 

I do not want to be his cup

just because / he is thirsty

for truth & reality

and he will swallow every ounce

of what I hold that is good

inside of me,

yet never wake from falling...

he lives in what-the-Who-ville of

"If" / "Could've" / "Should've"

"Maybe's" and "Would-Be"

half beliefs

 

a walking, talking contradiction

a fool

a self-made chief

of disbelief...