The Act Of Being Polite
I did not mean to hurt her when I fell asleep last night
I was just exhausted from the act of being polite — The Residents
I’m writing a novel.
I shall call it Mon Bazou…
My Beautiful Wife.
I’m thinking of writing a novel.
I shall call it Mon Bazou,
My Beautiful Brain.
Critics will call it
eccentric, luminous, insane.
I’ve written a novel, Mon Bazou,
My Beautiful Parking Lot.
Critics call it direct, honest, and true.
In my book you said
Shiloh is a place of peace.
We argued into the night.
Politeness be damned,
I called you a fuckhead.
Then I busted your jaw.
I once wrote a novel called
In Search of Your Teacher’s Hidden Bunghole or,
Brown-Nosing Your Way to Head of the Class.
Never published, so I
hid the manuscript
in the children’s section
of the New Caledonia Library
where, I am certain,
it will be discovered
and praised with words like
eccentric, luminous, insane.
Eccentricity.
Luminosity.
Insanity… mad as a hatter.
Round the bend I Whiskey A Go Go
to the Rock and Roll of Johnny Rivers’s
Memphis, Tennessee.
Long distance information, give me Memphis, Tennessee
Help me find a party tried to get in touch with me
She did not leave her number, but I know who placed the call
My uncle took the message and he wrote it on the wall…
Girls in cages, ya gotta love ‘em.
I digress…
It is said that one could walk
from one end of Kyiv to the other in the summertime
without leaving the shade of its many horse-chestnut trees.
I imagine Vladimir Horowitz took inspiration
from those very trees.
Only a few survived the onslaught.
Time it was, and what a time it was, it was
A time of innocence, A time of confidences
Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories; They’re all that’s left you
My apologies. I did not mean to nick you.
It’s just that I am so very worn from the act of being polite.
