Poetry is unscrubbed perception, scrubbed just enough for the rough edges to show, just enough for some shine. The scrubber – who cares who the scrubber is! Some mental process we’ll never be able to name, anyways. What is the ratio of funny to serious sentences in this paragraph? I’d hazard the guess, seven to one. The funny sentences I found in the funnies, and the serious sentences dropped like wrinkles from the heavy sighing warm eyebrows of the old Jewish men who populate my past. Their names are legion – Moskowitz, Rothkowitz, Yitalizer Pamutznik. All the utzes and witzes, added to each name like a small yippy dog holding on with its teeth to the brown pantleg of an insurance salesman. Get off yon pantleg, thou angry mutt! Meanwhile the rabbi is giving a sermon. Yawn! Zzzzzzzzzzz, I’m sleeping.