Clyde Dimsdale
You could postulate, if you so chose,
That his three pet-drayhorse phrases say everything,
Characterize, canonize the substance of his limitless personality,
Give him whatever distinction distinguishes his essence
From that of his inexpressibly inexpressive cronies —
"What it is, is that..." (every third sentence begins this way);
"It is what it is" (every second sentence ends on this note);
"You know"
(This handy saw does durable around-the-clock double duty,
As an opener and a closure to each profound observation).
Those who know and esteem him as a homespun philosopher
In the mold of an Erich Hoffer stevedore,
A salt-of-the-earth, meat-and-potatoes sage of the Midwest prairie,
Not only forgive him his petty pet drayhorses but bet on them,
Know better than to censure him, for his obnoxious reiterations.
They all see through his superficial, unintentional verbal tics,
To the visionary genius of his insights.
Conveying enlightened humanistic wisdom, with his every breath,
He's truly an all-seasons Renaissance man of the mind —
Science, literature, religion, lawn mowers, TV's, cheeseburgers.
But these days of his increasingly late and later old age,
He often forgets to saddle up his pet drayhorses,
Lets grunts, howls, moans, growls, barks, hoots, groans
Take the reins, ride roughshod over all his cronies,
Who are yet in awe of his scintillatingly articulate brilliance.
01/13/09 - (2)
|