CONSTANTLY FLIRTING WITH PERVERSITY

Constantly flirting with perversity
and irrelevance, hilarity
and mayhem (and whatever
other furies, fates and/or muses
that may or may not come forth)
whenever he performs
his wickity-wack schtick
before the giant
disembodied bobble-heads
of the court,

the poet,
like the contortionist or alchemist
(though really more like
the civil war re-enactor
or HAM radio enthusiast)

must attempt to lasso the spotlight of world opinion
away from his fiercest rivals;
Top-40 radio and Cable TV
(with a golden, truth-revealing lariat
of his own weaving)

and all the while trying to kick ass
and look good at the same time,
maintaining a confidant smile
and not breaking a sweat or breaking
for a smoke or to take a piss or nothing.

For he is supposed to be
the super-duper-surrealist who must (of course)
do battle (via his art) with his arch-nemesis;
the man behind the man behind the curtain;

the Usurper-Realist;

he who hath conscripted and distorted
fair Truth and Beauty and pimped them out
to the lowest and meanest of common denominators
(for whatever nefarious experiments
and other lurid purposes).

So, good people of highest, lowest
and most middlest America,

let us take a moment of silence tonight
to drink one for ambulence drivers
and elevator repairmen,
for neurosurgeons and airline pilots,
night watchmen and day laborers,
high school science teachers and hostage negotiators
and all the Jack O Lanterns, Wandering Jews
and Flying Dutchmen, out there, far from home
and lost in night, keepin it real and fightin the good fight
(or, just tryin to keep a low profile),

but, also one for our anti-hero, here,
this little mighty mouse of a character daring
to triple-dog-dare The Great Dragon Of The Airwaves
(a.k.a. The Giant Spider Of The Inter-Webs)
to come down from its top-floor office suite

and step into the ring.

-Jason Ryberg, 2006