Content to Be Formed

Dispossessed of an acute paranoia, I assumed a vagrant
hospitality, played checkers with any pedestrian
who could fish or whittle while waiting in the rain.
My manners preceded my speech and before long,
the entire experience was lip-synched for the benefit
of the literally impaired. Imagine mixing the sounds
of falling with the future prime of random birthdays.
What do you get? Another day deeper and another year leapt.
Poor lump of potato pancake, sorry excuse
for a contradiction, can’t you see the intercom
is in need of repair, that all the king’s horses
and all the king’s ken couldn’t keep empty Humpty
from studying zen? At the School of the Loaded Cipher
we learn ways to keep our glasses half full,
a parenthetical smirk at the end of every fork.
Equivocation leaves room for doubt, which opens
the door to thinking about ways to relieve
the ontologically constipated, who, though for deader
or worse, insist on making speeches
from the podium of lost causes, themselves high
on codeine and imodium. What’s a poor existentialist to do?
Q-tip the inside of egg creams? Disappear
into the tail end of a plot to save guinea pigs
from experimenting on their captors?
History is what gets written, someone once wrote,
and if you don’t believe that, then read it again.

Chris Semansky | Mudlark No. 20
Contents | Contributor’s Note