Elegy On Toy Piano

Original Monkey

Original Monkey I’m working on my vanishing point. I’m practicing my zenith. I used to rely on a piece of glass to plunge into my heart but that’s nothing compared to my monkey. Usually we meet on a bench by the whortleberries to weep and watch the lambs disappear into the chasm. Hey, it’s a rotten world for a monkey too. Just because you’ve got opposable thumbs doesn’t mean you can untrip the trap. My monkey though is very self-involved so when the glass doesn’t work and the invisible girders are groaning and I can’t get back to the old country of the great works of Western art restored to the luminosity of Looney Tunes, I call my friend who’s drunk again like me like me and my moonbeam. Wrong answer. Wrong ballistics report. Wrong club membership. Wrong draconian countermeasure. Wrong emergency room where the client in the party hat blinking blood says, It’s nothing, it’s nothing. I’ll be the judge of that. We can see that once the work of interpretation is done, the dream is the fulfillment of a wish just as the injury is the fulfillment of a wish and vibrating at the speed of E flat and unloading heads into the furnace and realism which is a form of surrealism on a time-delayed fuse so what I’d like to know is who’s making all these helpful wishes? My agony is no sillier than yours 7 even if it’s riding a tiny unicycle. All I’m asking for is a fellow monkey to accompany my original monkey in his bridal sadness. Once he was one among many in a tree. Once my piece of glass was part of a larger piece of glass which was part of a larger piece of glass which was . . . okay, you get the point. As if back there somewhere was something immense and intact. 8 ...