Not my diploma nailed to the wall, not my wife,
not my kids, not that I know of, smiling, holding
hands at the roller rink. Where's
my stuff? I ask, sticking my big mug,
coffee steam trailing from its lip, in every
orifice—er, office—along the long nightmare
of doors, behind which I find neither
tigers nor ladies, but blank,
indifferent shrugs. A hand grips
my shoulder:
What seems to be
the problem? It's Sheila. I share
my concerns about my position, as well
as my doubts about my fathering
the Kodak kids, which isn't meant
as a knock against the mother, for under
the right circumstances—
Listen, rocking
on her heels, Sheila interrupts, since
you've never worked here, you're probably having
some kind of episode. If I were strapped
to a hypnotic wheel, my head wouldn't
have spun more. Is my face red? I blurt.
Don't worry about it, she says. Rosacea's
treatable. Just try not to scratch. Then calls
security. Elevator going
down, the box
of personal belongings I'm handed
on the way out casts suspicion on Sheila's
explanation, though, in her favor,
I do itch. Suddenly blinded
by sunlight, I stumble over
a panhandler, spilling my life
scraps with his pencils
& change on the ratty blanket
that hides his amputated
legs. Sorry, I tell him, unsure
what I'm apologizing for—my clumsiness
or the cribbage pegs
he has for legs. He curses
& threatens, but I can't help
noting, with a surreptitious
snicker, that I got him by at least
two feet! Rising, I blow
a kiss to Sheila, who waves, for all
I know, from her glistering
window. It's just
like the old proverb about
the man with no shoes, except
I have shiny new loafers—
so I kick him.
Dizzying the way it winds
in the rearview, this
road, a metaphor for life,
a wisp of smoke that climbs
a hill into plush clouds.
There the Maharishi, eyes
closed, sits in lotus
position, meditating.
He enters my mind as if
through the unlocked door
of my house, so I have to drive
back home to take care
of that. Thanks, Maharishi.
Thank you for reminding me.
"It is much easier," a sweaty Johnson
reckons, slipping into ladies' pink
merino drawers, "not to write like a man
than to write like a woman."
Which is true
if you write with your cock. Easier still—
as we observe Boswell, silk slipper alighted
for leverage on the master's rump
pad, tugging corset laces
tight for the honor-
able, honorary doctor, who, expelling
wind like a whale, adjusts
his ponderous falsies—is not to write
at all. Period. End of sentence.
Ah! but these things—
as casting a critical eye at the critic, batting
his lashes spastically & applying
a coquettish mole upon
a rouged & powdered cheek, suggests—
are not as simple
as they seem. For one often feels certain
inborn urges to dip the quixotic
quill, so to speak. The doctor advises those
with such desires to go about it early
of a morning, with the crusty
moon doffing its elegantly plumed
tricorn, then "crowd to the public
rooms at night," for "real
delight," comes—if you know your Johnson—not
from wit alone, but a hale
& hearty fuck. Of course, one can do it
any time, Johnson clucks, "if he will
set himself doggedly to it." Winking, he whistles "Air
on the G-String" whilst conjuring Sapphic
couplets, triplets & all
forms of sextilla to encourage
budding authors. Never shy, his phony
coiffure piled high with pomade & flour
a bit like Mme. Pompadour, hoop
skirt hoisted to flaunt
petticoats & garters, he provocatively
gestures to "every young man . . . to do it as fast
as he can," &—according to Boswell
behind his ornate spread fan—
"to start promptly."
Matt Morris has appeared in various magazines & anthologies. His first book, Nearing Narcoma, won the 2003 Main Street Rag Poetry Book Award (selected by Joy Harjo); Pudding House has published his two chapbooks, Here's How (2007) & Greatest Hits (2010). When not writing, he preaches poetry at the First Prosodic Shrine of the Divine Muse. Although he lives far away, you can visit him online, if that sounds like something you'd like to do, at miscmss.blogspot.com.
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