Will Rogers

Will Rogers
November 4, 1879 - August 15, 1935

Early in my Extreme Traumatic Brain Injury recovery phase (which I am still in), I began a new collection of free, public domain poems, called 'Brummer Striving' (and also the freebook 'Microminibliss'). This poem, inspired by Rogers' life, it's my aim to put in 'Brummer Striving'. I intend that before long will be seen all of that varied collection, in my Poetry pages at wilsonsalmanac.com.

Only a few American comics do it for me.
But I like Mark Twain and Will Rogers.
In 1893 Will toured Australia doing rope tricks in Wirth Brothers' Circus.
Mark Twain was here for months and saw Woolgoolga.

I’m not too afraid of death any more.
Not even too afraid of getting old.
But paper cuts suck.
Maybe he saw Toormina.
I even like circuses, but I can’t say anything witty about them.
Not like Will could have.
I never met a man I didn’t like.
I never met Will anyway,
and a handful of men I’m not crazy about.
I never met a woman I didn’t like.
Though a handful of women I’m not crazy about.
And I never met a tit I didn’t like
Even if, to tell the truth,
I’m not crazy about one or two.
I like them long, straight, curly, fuzzy, snaggy, shaggy, ratty, matty
Oily, greasy, fleecy, shining, gleaming, streaming, flaxen, waxen
Knotted, polka dotted, twisted, beaded, braided
Powered, flowered and confettied
Bangled, tangled, spangled and spaghettied.

You picked it like a nose.
I’m a bit more scared of getting old than I let on.
’Cause we’re all loved more young, young, young.
And of writing poetry that doesn’t rhyme.
It’s so hard to get into the poetriati,
Whether you do or don’t rhyme,
Though in this blip of history,
Rhyme’s no joy and it’s for the hoi polloi.
That doesn’t rhy … Shit. Slip of the … Oh shit!

Years ago, before economic rationalism added to irrationality,
A mate of mine worked in a bank. Once a week he put up the date. That’s it.
He might have had some client like me, cuz I check the date a few times a day.
Because I intend to become a poet.
Best on my CV: I wouldn’t work in an iron lung.
Dad’s always said that the best thing about his nature is
He knows when to stop skiting.
And I’ll go before I start.