![](https://static.wixstatic.com/media/c938c5_fdaf20957b1843e48a1364bcfcfd6402.jpg/v1/fill/w_119,h_110,al_c,q_80,usm_0.66_1.00_0.01,enc_auto/c938c5_fdaf20957b1843e48a1364bcfcfd6402.jpg)
Time passes because you don’t know the art--
the dark makes all hands numb,
empty as speech, mute as a mustard seed.
© Karen Morris, Poet / Collaborating Author • 2017
Rage : The Misery of Men | Hope: The Dawning of Men
![Happy Ending-aurgh-aurgh by John Tomlins](https://static.wixstatic.com/media/c938c5_b0e0e4a8558344c3add7b75842c59dcf~mv2.jpg/v1/fill/w_120,h_148,al_c,q_80,usm_0.66_1.00_0.01,enc_auto/Happy%20Ending-aurgh-aurgh%20by%20John%20Tomlins.jpg)
click to enlarge
Happy Endings
​
From the beginning: like every other person of my class, race, gender, place in birth order, I want my endings happy - even as I tell myself that life sucks, how everything’s wrong. Life’s nothing more than intolerable nothingness - right? Yet, today I find emptiness, yes - but that there's really nothing, really wrong - isn't this just the way it is for most people; intolerable but tolerated at any rate we still watch TV in our cozies with similar iconic smiles - there again I find surprise, unlike women on TV, in magazines or private rooms on-line, I’ve never had razorblades, concertina wire, or burning cigarettes placed inside my vagina; nor animals, dead or alive, or animal parts, or a grenade in place of a cock - I’ve not had pepper or chili oil forty-million Scoville Heat Scale Units hot sending me slashed and smashing into walls like a chicken with my head chopped, hardy-haaar, for a drop of blood-red excitement, the vein throbbing, dead but still pumping; no filthy coins to pick up with my butt cheeks, no slimed bills inserted, no baht, no lira, no euros, no yen; I've never had to shake my money tree cause you said to, aurgh-aurgh, or give you the happy ending you paid for or bear your full weight collapsed with a shit eating smirk as I atomize into less than vapor - into intolerable, silent illumination of nothingness, because - Here, once more it is Spring. Here flowering- Here, the intractable spoiled-seeds of tragedy birth more babies with grave beginnings.
©2020 Karen Morris Poet