A Poem for Stan

The canary's dead but don't worry.

It wasn't gas, just some disease.

(The mine collapsed anyway.)

Isn't it odd the way that most

bartenders are drug addicts?

Irony would prefer them be drunks.

Isn't it odd the way that most

chefs are alcoholics?

Irony would prefer them be gluttonous.

Isn't it odd the way that most

waitresses are the girls from high school

that thought irony was just a pop song?

I think I'm done with this.

Stan's poem was about honesty—

mostly, honesty in poetry.

Or, at least I think. Maybe

I'm just bad at listening,

but it made me see things clearly.

Metaphors are such fucking liars.

I'm stripping them from my poetry.

I'm stripping them from my memory.

My parents used to make me go to CCD.

We would read all of these stories,

but most of them weren't about Jesus.

I remember, one was about this tree

that ended up becoming the cross

he was hung from.

It was proud of what it became and

I think there's some sort of irony

but I realize now that it was useless.

That it was lying to me.

These metaphors are deceptive.

Even trees can die of disease.

Did you know that?

The Dutch Elm Disease

was spread by beetles.

It wiped out 25 million trees.

I'm sure there's metaphor there,

but I won't let there be.

The tree's dead but don't worry.

It wasn't an axe, just some disease.

(It crucified your savior anyway.)