For Gene Wilder

This is the shortest of my poems. It is not a take on any poem but simply an poem about thoughts provoked when I listen to the song “Pure Imagination”, a song, which I believe, harnesses an absurd whimsicality just like the poem “In Just-“ by e.e. cummings. Except, unlike the song and e.e. cummings poem, my poem takes a darker root, examining humanity in a critical, dark, maybe comical way.

For Gene Wilder

With a face covered in tar

You can’t fly your glider anywhere

And I see now why the same goes for

Being dosed in ink

And for having squid thrown at your face

And for the birth of babies.

And lame people aren’t stupid people

But it’s hard

Not to believe that mental doesn’t

= physical (always)

You just have to enter that state,

The one that can

Jokingly be called Buddhism,

And it’s all a soft blur and

Spray is what I want to believe

But people are hanging all dead and

All sick now

And open mouth = (not

Always but sometimes)

A sick

Winner in death.