All is Well

An often told joke goes like this: three ironworkers

eat their lunch 800 ft. atop a New York City skyscraper

complaining about the same meal day in and day out.
All three men decide to jump.

At the funeral, two wives

wail and sob ‘if only I had known, I would have made him

something different,’ but the third wife does not cry.
She says to them, ‘I don’t understand, this Shmendrik
made his own lunch.’

            Humor, is in the re-telling, maybe?

When I speak everything is flammable. Words curl in the fire

of my mind. They extinguish before I can get much out.

I spit and stammer. I’m no joke-teller. To better ensure

a response, try stating something untrue. I’d give anything,

a friend of mine overheard, to have half of Gerald’s charm.
My brother asks, do this favor - you’re good at schmoozing.

Fortson and I, on the balcony at some college party rehash

the nastiest joke we could imagine: all the accompaniment

of grotesque words and image. I bet our guests wished

they could jump off.
In jail, the inmates recite Saturday Night

sketches and stand up routines. We laugh until they make us

stop. Aren’t we always fearful our gifts desert us?

Dylan Thomas drank to fuel that engine or force forgetting.

They put his last words as: “18 whiskies, straight: a record.”

O the ubiquitous ‘they.’ Devilish, they. I wish I could gather

all the Theys and… jump off.            

Another!

A farmer drives to town one sweltering summer,

sees an old man carrying a giant suitcase. “Get in!”

Thank you says the old man “...and so as not to take

advantage of your kindness, I left my suitcase on the road.”

Like the ironworker staring down the cold smile of another

ham sandwich, I am unable to conceive of a further future,

how to outlive days being the butt end of a joke and instead

be eminent, be an artist, an adult. I rather be mercilessly

incoherent. That’s a record!

World-class shnook. Underdog.

An expression on his face that says All is Well.

            Well, that idiot made his own lunch.

Reviews

[Fabian G. Franklin]

Yes. "The ubiquitous "they" " They are always doing the craziest things. I like the pronounism of it all...they is secretive to the point of emotional espionage. They travels about incognito wearing dark glasses and fueling the fervor of the masses. I'd bet they owns a trench-coat. Forgive my meandering rabbit chase. Where was I? I enjoyed reading this. I'm not certain if certain artists ever become adults. I'm fighting it every misbegotten step of the forced march to normalcy. Are we there yet?