ON SECOND THOUGHT
By Daniel Palevsky
My life began and ended with the idea of a singular atom.
On second thought, I thought I might use the word
“retrospect.” Or “a retrospective.” On second thought, YAWP
has that nice salmony color which firms up
when you cook it. YAWP is best devoured quickly, yes yes YAWP
probably spoils fast. A person who writes “Yawp” on the mirror
in post-shower mist probably doesn’t think he’s looking at a guy
who’d waterslide down 5th during Hurricane Sandy.
On second thought, if you’re thinking about marrying a poet, don’t marry
a poet. On second thought, balloons need pricks as much as blowers.
On second thought, maybe I should
write about my actual life. By which I mean I should write my story
and go over it the way da Vinci went over his portraits –slowly,
meticulously, longingly, lamely, troughed with unattainable desire.
Which brings us back to YAWP, and that guy in the street who everyone
stares at and nobody talks to. Because try to nail
a portrait in the brain of an ephemeral world, and it rains
refrigerator magnets blaring “The END is NIGH.”
“The End is Nigh” sounds something like trombone,
which sounds nothing like elephant, which “The End is Nigh”
also, sort of sounds like. Piano without the petals can sound
like an elephant. Or at least a modern elephant.
On second thought, pianos are made from recycled weapons.
That’s them sticking it to us. Straight
Through the chest, a wound too complicated to dig into.
Because after all, a scatter tries to catch light as it bounces off.
Could you spend your life chasing the fireflies attracted to your
wounds? The damn universe keeps contorting all the time.
Anyway, on second thought, I renounce second thoughts
and move to progress to third thoughts. But no, no, no, no,
NO, for the love of God please no more YAWPS.
–
Daniel Palevsky is a New York Jew, musical theater enthusiast, and candidate for a Masters in Social Work. He studied creative writing at Muhlenberg College and continues to live, learn and kvetch life’s dirty business with the help of quirky co-workers and patients of all ilk, colors, and classes in the healthcare industry. Don’t ask him how he got there from creative writing because the two are married and they’re tired of telling stories about how they’ve met. Daniel does not believe in taking the easy way out, though capable of spouting poems in one straight shot despite himself from time to time. He also interns at Berl’s Brooklyn Poetry Shop erratic Sundays, where he reads all day, meets characters and helps host readings.
