Upon Outing My Friend As an Optimist
I want the old you back.
You were my Edgar Allen Poet
and I could always be sure
that no matter how crappy I felt,
you felt crappier.
Now you’ve betrayed me
and have become happier.
Who do you think you are,
Walt Whitman? All smiles
and lilacs blooming in your dooryard;
It’s all very disturbing,
curbing your lack of enthusiasm.
You’re up on the pinnacle of joy
while I’m teetering on the chasm.
Your favorite past-time
was to crash a funeral,
pretending you’re Maud
and I’m Harold.
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poem by Sonny Rainshine
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Current Currency
Dollars, euros, yen:
they’re all just pretty pieces of rags,
cotton, linen, and silk,
a bit of Crane paper, so we’re told.
Those currencies that no longer
predicate their value on precious metals,
gold or silver, for example,
have no more intrinsic worth than
fancy rags made of shirt fabrics.
Paper money is then much like
a wedding song “O, Promise Me”
performed over and over and over
until becoming superfluous.
Then the wedding guests long
for something more enduring
like Bach, Chopin, or Mendelssohn
(gold, silver, or real estate)
with no promises attached.
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poem by Sonny Rainshine
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