Oh how Zie loved to jest.
From the chimney, he’d gather
ashes, spread them on his desk
for grand tales of soot-grey cats
strangled by their own beauty.
Truly, he could be an ogre,
butchering storks to use
their legbones for cages
to keep smaller songbirds,
crazy like that, his wild invention.
Zie’s jests, oh famous! How on a night
without borders, when his granny and ma
pressed juice from old orchard cherries,
he declared his house a cinema,
projecting images of ripeness on the wall,
and took the four most zaftig women
from the village to his bed
to bounce and guzzle the brilliant elixir
like a Bedouin, declaring his potency
and paternity global,
which proved no jest, when Gorzki was born
tipping the scales at twenty sound pounds.
Gorzki took to the Stradivarius
at an age when most babies gummed zwieback,
a one like no other, as his father before him
was a one, big and bigger, unbroken
even after Jack-falls and other rash stunts,
the dome of his head wisped with strands
of music from his violin or ocarina.
He brought gladness to the drear piety
of the village, sweet to the bitter,
an upswing to each dug spade.
Credit dna, the jest’s global design.
I, of the people, have tracked it,
west and south, Zie’s jazz deployed,
sworn in, baked in three more pies:
Zbliza, with her modern take on baton
twirling (involving inertial navigation
too complex for me), Dokad trained ocelots
to arrange their spots in sonnets of Morse Code,
and Dzieki, Zie’s namesake,
with his tapestries of spun sugar,
recorded the history of the village’s
whimsies in triptychs,
hundreds and hundreds of them.