Ode To Boredom

Ode to Boredom
Animating force that moves a god’s hand,
how full the libraries are with your books!
You are as restless as the Andes winds
and as uncompromising as gravity
as it yanks the jaded jumper from the Empire State Building
down, ever downward
to form a bloody pancake for others to gossip about.
You array the actors upon a world-stage and spring their feet
flip-flopping through the air
in a prancing, indulgent pageantry
while the blood stirs to spill out
into the audience
like the roses to a matador.
Thereafter the room showers your ears
with clapping, antsy fingers
whose nerves burn anxiously
with unspent energy
and thoughts of Death’s nearing domain
as the Grim Reaper watches his wristwatch
in a pee-pee dance of his own anxiety.
We, the actors, trip over each other,
laughing and weeping at our wayward attentions,
then dying,
but at least never without something to do in between.
To go to your movies!
And to go to your plays, Boredom!
To listen to your orchestras
and to watch your Olympics,
to war and to whore
and in the end to come back to you
utterly bored.
To anticipate with awe
what wonder you will work next
that will stir the century-caked eyes awake
so they may devour all the sights they might
like an insatiable black hole devouring endless light.
To dangle our dicks over starboard,
above the jumping Great White Shark,
just because you urge such splurging
while, unconsciously,
to relive the excitement of the Big Bang
when the universe sprang out from tiresome singularity.
You sculpted the Pieta, after all,
with Michelangelo’s hands
and the Thinker and the Venus of Willendorf.
You erected the pyramids,
then the Greek temples,
then decided to convert them to Christian churches,
then Turkish,
then Christian,
then Turkish,
then a museum for everyone,
then a pile of ruins for no one.
You painted the Crucifixion…
With Masaccio’s fingers,
and then with Grunewald’s fingers,
and then with Gauguin’s fingers,
so hung up you were with an eternity of free time to spend
while that tingling angst ached
through your nailed, quivering muscles.
Oh, and you painted the Mona Lisa,
with her trite little smile,
a smile from her to you, Boredom,
the trite little smile between you two.
The same smile is rendered each day in all humanity’s faces
as they amble to and from their humdrum, bumming abodes
hoping for freshly bubbling,
dynamically electric excitement
only to feel disappointment
as a mite-fizz crawls up the spine—
a sleepwalking mite in an insomniac existence that many can know.
So stay busy with your work, Boredom,
breaking yourself apart,
blasting yourself into a billion
cosmic bumblebees,
flitting here and there like bouncing electrons,
stinging people into action,
Pollinating people with inspiration,
feeding the larvae that will become more of you
as you swarm the world to send it running blissfully in mad circles
only to find itself tired of the aging pastime
and looking for something else
to cut aqueducts of adrenaline,
cooling this incessant spasm.
All of your fidgeting in the universe’s lattice-hive
diverts your buzzing brain,
and ours,
with honey drop dogmas and six-legged dancing speech
as giant honeycombs expand, elaborate,
and shrivel,
decomposing and becoming something
more things lost among the mundane ambience
that we inhabit day to day.
You, Boredom,
above all gods,
even religions,
rears the universe up on its paws to leap and roll.
You are a baby, giggling in a play-pin,
and then you are an old man whittling on a porch.
You are the three boys
in the backseat of the car
hitting each other upon the Sunday drive to church
worshiping existence with each disavowing fist.
You will wipe clean all the pretentious slates of humanity,
purge us of our collective vanity,
from T.S. Eliot and all of his esoteric works
to the Romantics and the Modernists,
even the silly Nihilists
with their quips and smirks and quirks,
and then you are retro-trends,
bell-bottoms and nose-piercings,
tattoos and peacock hairdos,
hippie tie-dyed t-shirts too.
Beloved Boredom,
you are the lever on the toilet bowl,
the godforsaken plunger,
and the sewage system gurgling below,
bubbling and overflowing,
rising up to greet humanity,
to suck us down in our own undertow.
My god, my body is anxious with disuse!
Boredom, you dropkick me in the ass and I _____.

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