Ricky Garni
CONFESSIONS
I am not sure if I was reading it correctly,
but if I was, there is a very famous philosopher
out there, I won’t mention who specifically,
but this philosopher, very deep and complicated
and all of that, and poised, too, and elegant,
a philosopher who dresses nicely and always
says the right thing, well, this philosopher,
who the whole world thinks so highly of,
in truth he, I’m sorry, this is so hard to say
so I hesitate to even say it. But I’ve got to say
it. Deep breath. OK. This philosopher, when he is away
from his pens and his books and his deep thoughts
and all the applause for his profound thinking ideas
and all of that, well, this philosopher, this guy, when
he is alone,he–I can’t even say it. I wish I didn’t even
know. Maybe I didn’t read it correctly, Actually, forget it.
A POEM ABOUT MY MUSCLES
Am I skinny, as I once was,
perhaps even a flabby weakling, or
maybe even fat! What I need is 50
lbs. of mighty muscles
They should be divided equally
among my torso, my broad, manly
back, my military shoulders and
my tree trunk legs
Oh, and my arms. My granite-y
arms. I want to be rock-like
But not a rock! I want to live!
And win a trophy that I can
carry with one of my two
he-man hands!
I want it to be silver!
Or gold, and a hundred of them–
very big one–I could melt them
down into ingots invest them wisely
And never work again!
Imagine! A life in which I could
gaze out onto the ocean, and stare
at the sun-dappled reflection of
my he-man chest.
I would never have to read
a book again and love would be
if not the answer, at least something
Wonderful to look at
for the rest
of my days.
Needless to say,
I am looking forward
to all of this.
So much so,
that I find it hard
to sleep.
I find that I am more
irritable lately, and tend
to cry, late at night, it seems
like, for no reason at all.
A LITTLE GIRL HUGS THE KINDLY BICYCLE OWNER
She tries the blue bicycle. Not so good. Then the red one.
Not what she had hoped for. Then the yellow. No, somehow,
yellow is worse: than the red, than the blue, than the green.
She hasn’t tried the green bicycle yet. But soon enough,
as the reader already knows, it will join the ranks of the blue,
the red, the yellow, and perhaps, if they ever decide to make
one, the orange. “Have I told you that we have
One pink bicycle left?” the kindly bicycle owner–with the
jolly laugh and the brown pants and the twinkle in his,
well, somewhere he has a twinkle–said, to the little girl, she
She tried to contain her joy, which is hard to do when you
are a hugging little girl. But she did, and she tried
the pink bicycle. Woosh here, wheee there, and so on.
Better than blue, better than red, then yellow, someday than
orange, like the sun, better than orange, unless the sun is pink.
If you want to know what happened next, you must read
the title of this poem, and then stop.
