Yesterday (a.m. or evening, I no longer recall),
I composed a poem, with some degree of gravitas,
Touching on God's first earthly family — Adam and Eve —
Borrowing as little as possible from the genius of Paradise Lost.
But would you believe it's not been even a day,
And already I've forgotten or filed away or shredded
That sonnet or ode or free-verse rant or limerick I wrote
To prove that Alzheimer's hadn't damned my artistic expertise?
I can't remember jack shit, diddly squat, bubkes,
About the philosophic, philologic, and cultural relevance of my lines,
If indeed they'd even aspired to seek such Miltonic heights.
All I know is that I'm empathizing with their dire exile.
Could it possibly be that my mind has abdicated its throne,
That august seat of my imagination's pants,
From which my most profound, visionary wisdoms have emanated?
Or am I merely stalled in a late-middle-age caesura,
Waiting for a cue from my Arcadian muse, to resume,
Compose more poems about Creation —
Satan and his two easy dupes: Eve (sexually addicted to snakes)
And Adam (whose tongue craves the taste of apples)?
Tonight, digging to the depths of my disappearing intellect,
The only fragment I can excavate from that poem is this:
"Do you know who was the first carpenter on earth?" "No."
"Eve. She made Adam's banana stand!"
If this crass, crude, juvenile, slightly prurient joke offends you,
I hope you'll excuse me, for exploiting you.
Please realize that I'm an exhausted poet, who's nodded off,
East of Nod, not even in shouting distance of Eden.
05/07/09 - (3)