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The Boredom Artist
Life, said Hobbes, is nasty, brutish and short.
He left out boring, as
grim a condition as any.
His tigerish namesake's epiphany,
in 20-point
captions, is a Sunday slot.
Then there's Chekov, who, a moment ago, wrote,
The earth is beautiful, as are all God's creatures,
only one
thing is not beautiful, and that is us.
Between philosopher, toy tiger,
doctor, there's
a ladder of land no man claims as his.
I'll settle down
there with old friends, familiars:
a monkey, my famous barking birds in pairs,
and defrocked Sukhvinder, the
bald brahmin bear.
Dawn, like whiskey, half-lights a watery world:
all
things break down to flesh, food and fear.
It's late December in Fleetwood,
downstate NY,
"glorious showers, thunderclouds continue".
My mind unwinds as the
century slows,
dribbles its years to a whining close
and defunct days
peddle the news.
Listen: nothing, not even love, is true.
Slumming in Bombay, Beelzebub
found himself at home. Finally, he
had a reason for lethargy.
Inert
like everybody, unable to sleep,
he blamed the humidity.
No use to say,
"But B,
that's what this city does: saps you,
leaves you spent like
change,
separates the dudes from the ditties."
He was having none of it,
a tools-down, feet-up, none of it,
and then the boss arrived,
unexpected,
on a Sunday.
But his boss - now what? - had
changed.
Hard as it was to believe,
she seemed kind, distracted,
humorous,
endearing even.
The day she came to take him home
they
were seen at the Hanging Gardens,
hand in hand, watching the dust bees
ride their pollen machines.
It was Christmas Day, just after dawn,
even the heat and humidity at peace,
it seemed, and Beelzebub's boss
serene.
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