There’s nothing funny about this, she said,
but that only made me laugh harder. I wish
I could have said that inappropriate laughter
is the most human, as is open weeping
after the best sex. Excess of sorrow laughs,
said William Blake. Excess of joy weeps.
I wish I could have said that we most need
laughter at midnight, surrounded by cold stones.
We need a drunken porter to hold his head,
fart, and make broad jokes about liquor
and cocks while royal blood stains a lady’s skin.
Every tragedy calls for a laugh, for a moment
of grinning recognition, a brief nod to the author
of the cosmic comedy. I wish I could have said,
Lighten up, baby. Listen to God’s laughter in the night wind.
But I could not catch my breath before she left,
before joy could begin to bring me down.
- Improv':
There’s nothing knee slapping about slim-swallowing, she said,
but that only made me double over with a hyena cackle. I admitted
I could have tongued a phrase about perverted laughter
sounding the most male, as is snore sleeping
after the pounding sex. Excess of sorrow laughs,
said William Blake. Excess of joy weeps.
I forgot I could have lipped that we most rub
cues at happy hour, linked by erect fingers and parts.
We call a drunken sailor to dangle his legs,
fart, and make marina jokes about sea-salt
and cocks while royal oil soils a lady’s hair.
Every splintered epic hallmarks for a laugh, for a stage
of teething applause, a brief salute to the scriptwriter
of the bestially slang dialogue. I wish I could have tinkly whispered,
Loosen limbs, baby. Chant to God’s laughter in the sweat storm.
But I could not gear-down my asthmatic heaves before she threw up,
before estrogen and eggs could begin to drain me dry.
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