oh how we wish we didn't have

such a tale to tell

(or someone else who'd tell it for us

coated in honey of legend)


at some points we tell it slow

the details coming alive

like fire on the tongue

as we weep for what has gone from us


and at others we tell it loud

and brassy like a howl of triumph

you took a pencil and broke it

moved an ashtray across the table


and at still other moments

we knew what blowhards we are

knowing ourselves pebbles on some eternal road

but wishing to stand out calling attention


to our vanity...

so we all wish for a Boswell to be our Johnson

(no laughing!) to tell our tale

as if we had significance beyond


our own desperate sense of self-worth

archetypes of the pool room

the worker at his machine

the professional pacing over his Greek tragedy


of pilfering found out

or the woman whether mother or single or single mother

put upon endlessly idolized for being Man's inspiration

while being kept down as Man's slaves


all of us want to be placed in the stars

the constellation Hairdresser

the star cluster Hedgefunder

the black hole WABOAs!


how you demand your immortality

even as you flitter away the actually lived life

that is your glory or your shame

and why bother? you are and will be remembered


you'll never escape the litter of leaving

the shattered evidence we leave in our wakes

tell your tale well and someone will sing your song

amid the tribulations we'll no choice but to face...



Content (c) 2008-2012 Philip Milito. All rights reserved.