An Ode to Stanley Ghoti

Reading Time: 2 minutes

Oh, I too want to be a poet!
and yet
Tell me where is meaning bred
In my heart or in your head?
Is it in ancestral words
or in your presumptions of what’s unsaid
in the surrounding static
or contextual tapestry that birthed the
utterance
of a syllable
of a what
is
meaning
and
is it circus
or is it bread?

Stanley the fishmonger
told me how to know it
when I saw it
without a poet
And we fished out drowned Phlebas,
Patron saint of Unconsidered Phoenicians
and failed Changers of Minds.
The Highlander Art double-checked the veil
of Reichenbach Falls
three days later
and found
A beekeeper.

My heart
bleeds
onto the scales
in your head
while you’re waiting for
Ma’at’s feather
and I am waiting
for a rebirth of wonder.

Larry was constantly risking absurdity
(People think he’s funny
A real estate investor who
loaned Kerouac his cabin)
Clocking lots of pages
He published Howl

Could he tell them that he never really had a poem?
That it’s the tale that the Ginsburg Generation spun?
They put Larry in a cell cause his collections, they sell
Cause a poet like Allen said, “Well,
Paris is nice this time of year,”
And danced across an ocean of broken wineglasses
To Blossom Dearie’s “I’m Hip.”

I crossed Ozymandias’s desert,
(Skipped the Sphinx with an Oedipal complex)
and found Tiresias, listening to Styx.
Domo Arigato, Mr. Robot-Oracle,
Have you seen my buddy Eliot?

When I found the old Possum
He said Hamlet’s feelings
didn’t correlate
with Keats’ pot of Basil.
Ovid was lamenting in Tomis,
While old Johnny Wilmot
Studied dentistry out West.
Donne: gone,
and the Groundlings were grounded.

Samuel said
the deepest edit of his intent
was a raft trip in Mississippi
while Mark (anonymously) remarked
“A man cannot be comfortable without his own approval.”
And Virgil’s will,
like Seneca,
was poorly executed.
Sisyphus was late to work.

And so the poem
was not to be.

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