it's 12:42 with joe

how sweet it was in its short return, joe. how sad and sweet, desperate and vulnerable in its last minutes. this is love,
vulnerable, vulnerable
it's insecure, in a box like a crab in its shell. It's desperate, lke the rim of a cigarette to the filter. like frank sinatra on warm summer nights in 2006, 2007, and 8. like the madness in the walls, all painted white, this is love, this is love
smiling that cary grant smile is that
cool and coy dean martin confidense
martini in hand, cigarette in mouth
spilling into the air, shades of darkness in his eyes as
the music plays
this is love, joe! this is amore
closing his index finger and thumb
pinching the air in that cool crooner style.

this frank sinatra song playing,
"You're Driving Me Crazy!" recorded in 1963 with a mistake. a screw up. yes
even the giants of time past made mistakes, the king of class. and you see the problem with poetry in all its complexities is that it has no humor. no class. as I sit here typing this shit with my greatest jack nicholson smile. thinking of my favorite philosopher who lives in a pineapple under the sea.