Funny How
by Jason Ryberg
things can so easily go awry sometimes
and just when you start to think
they might actually be functioning
properly, for once (pistons firing/
planets aligned/trains of thought, word
and deed running, more or less, on time/etc.),
just when you start to see some kind
of decent, respectable return on your investment
(be it financial, psychological, romantic
or some combination there of) some
unforeseeable monkey of the perverse
(let’s just say, for the sake of illustration,
out-fitted with cowboy hat, bandana and
western-style vest and riding a Catahoula
Leopard Dog (oh hell, why not?)) suddenly
comes along to throw a big, greasy wrench
into the delicate Swiss watch works of your
latest machinations (be they financial,
psychological, romantic, whatever, blah blah blah).
Out there, in the wide open, wind-swept middle
of one of those moments, motherfucker is a word
that often comes to the mouth before it passes
the mind’s inspection. Goddamn is another.
Son-of-a-bitch a commonly used phrase, as well.
Probably best to take it on the heel and toe, though,
before you draw any more unwanted attention to your self.
And, of course it won’t be long, now, before you’re
into your fifth or sixth double gin and tonic in some
noisy mid-town bar, ranting and raving to anyone who’ll listen
(the girl working there having heard it all before).
Maybe you’ve even managed to gather
a crowd unto you (though you’re beginning
to sense, somehow, that they’re laughing more
at you than with you) and the jukebox is
boom-boom-booming out tune after tune
designed specifically for that pop-savvy demographic
made up, almost exclusively, of teenage girls
and thirty-something gay men and that’s when
you find that you seem to have slipped
into some little isolated pocket or bubble
in the space/time continuum and you’re thinking
to yourself how you’d just rather be somewhere,
anywhere else other than here, maybe
on top of a mountain or even leaning back
on the hood of your car, parked off to the side
of a country crossroads, looking up at the stars,
10 PM or so, a six pack of Mickey’s, maybe,
some Chuck Berry or Buddy Holly or some of that
Beggar’s Banquet or Sticky Fingers era Stones (or all
of the above) on the radio and then BAM!, you’re back,
just as suddenly as you left (however long ago)
and you’re not sure who these people are
or how you even got there and then some slick,
wise guy playboy type with absolutely perfect hair
tells you that you’re funny.
Funny?
Funny, how?
