The Happiness Savage

Is this face smiling

some potion of

endorphins and gray matter

peanut butter and jellying me

onto two slices of Time,

one slice for the future’s pie hole,

the other for the past’s,

both connected by some shared colon

sphinctering me out

into a practically unbearable present?

I’m sure the secret to understanding

what it means to be happy

must lie underneath some taboo door,

hiding in the stink our backsides

each time we turn the clouds around

to complain about them,

and that’s about as close

to being happy as I’ve been able

to come,

brief moments inside which

I find myself snout to snout

with an irrefutable musk of being,

me, sniffing at the dark I am

as if I were a skunk cabbage I could delight in

and be thankful for.

An armpit sniffing skunk cabbage

growing alongside

our beloved lily of the valley,

into where happiness just won’t end,

and where I,

standing with my lord of the flies on,

straddle over the constant trickling of happiness,

with my own sadness-loving head,

still oinking at the end of my big, steaming stick,

for a face.