Ivan Jenson

I am being groomed
to be entombed
it happens every night
when I lay down
and cross my hands
over my chest
like my grandfather did
when he napped
and like a graduate of life
in death I will be
black-capped
and buried
deep with my diploma
and ready
to submit my resumé
which will be
whatever the heck
my gravestone
words will say
and as for me
I will be hired
by the HR department
of eternity

I am beginning
to see you
in a new light
rather than the old
flickering bulb
of my preconceptions
and now
the faults and the perfection
seem positively photogenic
It’s like my mind’s eye
cannot take a bad picture
of you
from your “say cheese” smile
to your movie star profile
to those out of focus
moments when you
are within the motion
of some emotion
or other
lover
or should I say former stranger
it’s a pleasure clarifying
our many misunderstandings
and I know this will
always be new
that is until the evening comes
when I forget to open
a door for you

I don’t know
any more
than an infant…
I too, cry
through carefully-
constructed words
so that I can be held
by the attention
of others
and intellectually
coddled and cuddled
with constructive
criticism or better yet
the suckle of warm
milky praise
just because I don’t
wear diapers
or suck my thumb
doesn’t mean I am
all that evolved
or that the Rubik’s cube
of my dilemma
has been absorbed
and absolved
in fact I am still
trying to lose
my baby fat
and am still
getting weaned
off my teens
and have to stop
teething on the midlife
midwife of midnight
loneliness
who sings me lullabies
getting me ready
for her very last
goodnight kiss

I don’t know how I do it
I am able to walk and talk
and see Jane run
while also chewing gum
and then I hum
the national anthem
to the heartbeat
of my own drum
you know the one…
that keeps me
above ground
yet still under
the wonder
of the sun…
I am that guy
with his dog
grappling with a past
and a shoe lace
in a knot
that cannot
be undone

I don’t know jack
about my ancestors
nor do I give a darn
about my forefathers
and I really should show
more emotion
for the fate of the ocean
but I am too busy
protesting on behalf
of the only
endangered
species that matters
me…
see,
hunters
are poaching
those that blow their
own horns
and these confidence
killers
take the rawhide
of raw talent
and exploit it
in the flee market
of free spirits
where it is sold
to those who hate
everything about
themselves
and then whatever
is left is ground
into stardust
glitter litter
swept away
and then washed
down by suds
of green envy

perhaps in
a third world country
or in the Far East
or in the Upper Peninsula
or Down Under
I will be appreciated
and adulated
the way I
was when I reigned
supreme in the
Disney World dynasty
of my delicious
tenacious pre-teen
gold-leafed
time frame
back when I looked
like I was ready to star
in an afternoon special
about a goody-good
who made good
with all the goodies
a goofball could
get hold of
and I am catching
the next
non-stop flight
heading back in time
to a place
that currently
has a high exchange
but low
currency rate
on unconditional
love

search yourself for
a talent
that you can squander
hunt for potential
that can never be reached
then reach for stars
that snicker at you
from light years away
now plan to stand up
expectations
at the altar
where you promise
to commit
and put a ring around
rosy promises
throw away
a perfectly
good morning
by sleeping
into the afternoon
and put up a
“do not disturb” sign
on your door
just in case
opportunity knocks
in the night
and finally
deeply
disappoint
those that believe
in you most
by panhandling
your affairs
with homeless
humility
just for the
Zen of it

One day you are going to
write a story, poem
or paint a picture so
perfectly framed
it should be a crime
and this deep
depiction
of someone
or something
spectacular
or unassuming
will register
with those in
the know
who will promptly
recognize
the energy contained
within the pigment of your
paint or your pointed
imagination
and then you will
penetrate
the consciousness
of the voyeur
connoisseurs
of your genre
but this is only
possible
if and when
you stop
crumpling up
your endangered
endeavors
and throwing them
in the wastebasket
you bought
at Walgreens

Maybe I did ask to be
here
and maybe I
was offered
a comprehensive list
of parents
to choose from
and it might well be
I was given a reason
and a mission to accomplish
and each and every character
I have ever met are merry
marionettes speaking
the pre-planned script
written by a bevy
of seasoned Sesame Street
styled ventriloquists
who were hired
by the executive
producer of
the greatest
mini-series ever told
to guide me
from my ABC’s to my
XY and final Z
see,
I’d rather be
the brainchild
of a TV show
tycoon
than the bastard
baby of a prehistoric
baboon