The Pitchman’s Joy Pitch

Humans and androids, auras of Wheatley and daughters of Jupiter,

I am the nobody that knows trouble seen. Some may call this

blasphemy. I believe all sorrow comes from a joy

passed down like a chainless pocket watch. There’s a variety

of figs that grows along the vines of countless public walls. Lush

and purple, the figs appear remarkable. They are as hard

as the softest gem. They are plentiful and indelible.

The old man muscling against the tide adds to this tale

of joy. I’ve cried as I watched the first light bloom

on my sleeping lover’s face. A single sorrow slid

down my cheek, disappearing into the pillow. I knew a sorrow,

I knew a sorrow briny and private and full of time.

I’ve grown tired of the ordinary. I know, given all my talk, this must

sound like hogwash, but I’m as wearied by the plain

as I am by the plaintive. I believe in the extraordinary,

which is either a life of joy with flashes of sorrow or a life

of sorrow with crashes of joy. I prefer washing dishes

to mopping the floor. My days run into each other, like the teardrop

falling onto the pillow, like dodgems at the county fair. I know

how to tell a lie convincingly. The point is, poetry is a truth

resembling a lie. Hallelujah. I’ve seen it all. Look long enough

and anything becomes a still life—poised and decaying, just like

you and me. I set my watch to the time it takes to move

from apathy to astonishment. Look, there’s an iceberg

breaking. Come quick, the sun is dying into the sea.