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July, 2019

The Jester Has His Say


by Charles Carreon
July 14, 2019


Way up high on his 10-ft throne
Kalapa's King sits all alone.
He times his breath with a metronome,
Occasionally throws his subjects a bone,
Scratches his rump and checks his phone.

Perhaps his lawyers have texted him
Perhaps the news has grown less grim
Perhaps the exposes are at last exhausted,
He thinks of the girls he once accosted,
And a furtive smile plays on his face.

He thinks how Pa would've handled this
With a cupful of vinegar, a gallon of piss,
He'd have sent them all to hell with a wave
And hastened to an early grave
While students hoarded each blessing he gave.

He thinks of his title, Protector of Earth
Imagines how he once encompassed its girth.
In his mind, at least, He offered a feast
To men and dralas, women and beasts,
Of self-conceived monarchs he wasn't the least.

But spiritual authority's not without flaws
Like gravity, secrecy's one of its laws.
Should samaya relax, hell opens its jaws,
And like Sogyal one slides into Yama's swift claws.
Across such ruminations, a curtain he draws.

Control over thoughts is the greatest of things.
From memories suppressed, nobility springs.
From infinite jest, freedom arises,
With a flick of a metaphor, reason is banished,
Like flushing a toilet, the evidence vanished.

Was he once foolish? Concede that he was!
Was he a sinner? Well, he copped a buzz.
Did he grope women? He thought it was fair.
Steal lots of money? Well, they left it there.

Still, it's mighty dull in Kalapa town,
With nothing but toadies hanging around,
Waiting for real estate deals to close.
His mother just died. He blows his nose.

The last book flopped, the next one won't sell,
On Facebook, he's jeered like a minion of hell.
They don't understand, it was all just for fun,
The Kusung delivered them, each tasty bun,
Like Daddy, he loved them, every last one.