Woody Allen says somewhere that showing up is eighty percent of life.
Well the other twenty percent is what you do when you get there.
If I wrote the story of the things that I have done—
Flaming faux pas for eternity—
I’d have to tie you to your chair and read it all out loud
because there’s no way you could ever stand the pain
Your poor mind. Your assaulted sensibilities
To see me on my tightrope of stupidity
Telling Myrtle Rose that her freckles weren’t ugly
because, from a distance, I could swear she had a tan
Or arguing politics with the guy who had a swastika
tattooed on his face
Once I helped an old lady cross the street
then yelled at her for not keeping up
I still wince at the stink I left in my mother in law’s bathroom
And one Spring morning, among the wild flowers in a meadow
where the butterflies frolicked in the sun
the bees collected pollen
and a bull tried to mount an unreceptive cow
ecstasy overtook me,
and someone saw me naked,
and it wasn’t fun to be me anymore,
and now I can’t run fast enough to leave myself behind.
E J Barron
E J Barron 