Odysseus--he's still up there
spinning on his crazy raft
one monstrous wave away
from joining us down here
waiting on Charon
with people clamoring like lunatics
to get on his boat
not me, man--I don't care
if I never get on, or see, another boat
as long as I live, or, mutatis mutandi,
however long I'm dead:
for I will say it: that was one fucked-up tour.
Oh well,
we knew what we signed up for.
Not that we had a clue
what we were signing up for
if you think about it
we did not sign up to be turned into pigs
become addicted to lotus
or be seduced to a watery grave by sirens
nor did we sign up to be eaten by Laistrygonians
or chewed by a cyclops
or squished by a boulder
we faithfully signed up
we slaughtered Trojans
or were slaughtered by them
we did not run away
but we did not sign up for any of that other
how could we
how could anybody sign up
for everything that happens?
the poet knows this, at least.
small comfort.
but without the poet everyone would be walking around saying
'well, they knew what they signed up for'
like a bunch of assholes
and if the Captain makes it home
(though I expect him here
any moment now)
neither will he
reunited with his family
sitting at some feast,
repeat--like a total fucking asshole--repeat that lie
'they knew what they signed up for'
--that vicious lie, worthy only of cowards
and soulless fools
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