THE HEDONIST

When you finish swilling your ice water

through a silver metal straw, hook me up

to a hypothetical experience machine, please!

So I might eat deep fried grasshoppers

for the first time and try on T-shirts

historians say were worn by Hitler,

or, alternatively, inhabit the habits habituated

by happy nuns. Let me take up residency

in Utah instead of Nevada,‘cause people

live longer in Utah, urbanologists say.

And why wouldn't I wanna I live longer, if I could.

Let me be a rambunctious harbinger of hilarity,

while still keeping my pants on

during morning commutes on public transport.

And be a collector of Wittgensteinobilia

to celebrate a man and a philosopher who was

irascible and melancholic to the core.

Let me be promiscuous with my use

of the word promiscuous and in my spare time

be a physician of the soul. Let me show valor

while passing through turnstiles.

Let me be the psychmetrician who will analyze

what happens when one extra minute is added

to the end of every colonoscopy.

Is it a happy ending or not?

Only the data knows.

And let me flex my orbicularis oculi

and my zygomaticus muscles

to show off my Duchenne smile.

You know the one I mean: the one

we make, quite involuntarily, quite naturally,

that is the sincerest smile we humans have.

The one where the corners of the mouth

curl upwards and the eyes crinkle like crow’s feet

at the edges. That one!

As a professed hedonist, what I want is

as many good moments as I can muscle my way into,

that have me discovering, promiscuously, my own

personal pleasure principle in the process.

I don’t want to fidget my way toward death.

I want to cluck and strut my way toward the gallows,

be as alive as I can be. And truth be told,

and if necessary, I’ll even wear a tutu and a tiara

on my way to the Emerald City.

I will, if it gets me to where I wanna go.