|Kint lives in Shannon, Ireland.|
© 2003 Kint McLerity
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
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.
All poems are copyrighted property of Kint McLerity.
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