Dali’s mustache revisited
Who cares if Dali’s exhumed mustache is intact?
Who cares if a cat can say his master’s name?
Who cares if the Congressman
Thinks that NASA has a secret reason to go to Mars?
Who cares if there are nettles growing among the raspberries?
And that my friend is probably right,
That the stars are actually the tears of God
Reflecting the light of our souls.
My back hurt all night, and it still hurts
Even though my wife rubbed it with Tiger Balm.
That’s all the matters.
And when your back hurts all night,
I promise not to remind you
Of Dali’s mustache
And the sorrows of God.
Reflection: This is the first poem I have written in weeks. It was inspired by the news of Dali’s body being exhumed to prove his patrilineage. More to the point, it impressed me that they noted that his mustache was still intact. Not that is was intact, but that they noted it. I suppose I would have too; in fact I’m sure of it. Anyway, I also thought of Lazarus, risen from the dead. Poetry never dies. Sometimes it plays dead so it can disappear for a while, rooting around in the underworld, most likely bored with the pencil-thin searchlight of the conscious mind. Surrealism to the rescue of my writer’s block!