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more poetry by Kint McLerity 

Kint lives in Shannon, Ireland.




© 2003  Kint McLerity




Definitive Laughter


Because we were artists we couldn't think of

anything original, so we called ourselves Amigos

after the Steve Martin movie.


Our art was diverse, that must be the most to

be said for it-

we called it art, but that was more a pleading

proclamation, us waiting at the foot of a lake

anxious to hear the world echo back our cries.


If only we could've been pretentious

at least people would've treated us as artists

the way they take a step farther around you

talk and walk with you outside your aura

afraid of becoming infected by whatever gene or virus that turns normal people

into artists


So instead of flinging dye against the canvas

or banging on the stretched out integrity of music

we would sit around all night diners, and laugh- which is really the only thing we were good at.


We laughed. We laughed definitive laughter.


Let the other artists compose plays, draft poems, and create moving pieces of sculpture for college courtyards and everywhere else that needs them. We blew them all away in laughing.


There were nights empty as dry riverbeds

that no one could fill like we did

with our stampeding rivers of laughter

heads back, pouring angels of sounds straight

up to God's ears to keep his faith in men strong; and when we laughed people stared

heads turned in wander to find out

but like most artists we weren't understood.


The definitive laughter rolled out of us

like hula hoops and circuses across America

and we were just as easily forgotten and ignored, but we laughed anyhow

just as every man who has laid down to die in a forgettable field, wrapped himself in the chilled arms of eternity and made the long trudging trek into the Earth

where he can stare up from between the roots and blades of grass to watch the feet pummel his grave and the ploughs and cars play games

of tic-tac-toe over the spot he once carpeted in his red glory.


Even knowing that, we laughed. We tried to be

artists, but our hands and ideas could never

match our laughter. The colors of paints and the crispness of imagery

were never quite

as potent, or easily workable as the short quick

dance steps, which we mastered in all night diners;

waltzing and tangoing and with ballet smooth

chortles we found the definition we lost interest in seeking.


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All poems are copyrighted property of Kint McLerity.



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