Bene facis, Leonard Cohen
What could make me happy except
for writing another poem?
Sometimes even a God- (or self-) appointed bard shuts up,
gets to where they can accept
the prompt no longer. Heaven feels close
to them then, but nothing makes them happy except
for lying with bated breath
in their Satipatthana pose,
feeling their bones dry up
and crumble into dust. Always
the marvelous adept—
the boy who’s risen from the foam
like Venus, true to life—except
for missing some certain glamor—bankrupt
of true cred—Queen of the Prom
dancing with a pumpkin. OK, then, I’ll shut up
and take a long, long nap.
I don’t know how far into my weird dreams I’ll roam,
but nothing will make us happy except
for me shutting the fuck up.
