Fools have been around since before fire, before writing, before ceremonial burial, before baklava.
Fools were involved, even important, in the invention and discovery of all the ten thousand marvels.
Fools, I tell you, come in all sorts of packages.
They may arrive via the postal service in a plain brown wrapping,
They could be nestled in among their fellows like sardines, smokes,
There is a high probability you’ll find one the next time you surf
across the broad ocean of information, miles of content without surface tension, holding nothing up, just filling a gaping digital void, so that you can’t see the sea floor of your soul. A Foolish illusion.
There is a pretty good chance they will invite you to join them,
to sing for them at their next party. A gig! You wanted a gig, right?
It’s really sad how fools flock like sparrows, warming their feet
on the current that zips through the wires,
chatting you up, inviting you to electrocute yourself.
As though you were a bird-brain too, and could just flit away.
Despicable? Yes. We all know that.
Harmless? Yes. Perhaps. No. I mean yes. I mean, no; yes, harmful.
There appears to be some confusion about that.
Let me just say that I pity the fool who comes to me
and invites me to have my hands bound with black tape
to be thrown into a trunk
to be taken down to that river
to be slung in without ceremony.
“I will break your face, fool.”
What the fool doesn’t realize
(and this is what makes the fool a fool)
is that
I might even come along, but
Could the tape be silver instead of black?
Could the gag be made of phyllo, marzipan and honey,
so the river bottom would taste sweet?
No, it sounds fishy. Come on, fools.
Do I not at least deserve some ceremony?
Happy April 1st.
Adam G. Fleming 