“There
was never yet Philosopher
that could endure the Toothache patiently.”
Much Ado About Nothing, V.i. 35–36
At
the root, in the o of howl,
the un-Novocained pain of excavation,
no patience grows for poetry,
no pithy acceptance of oratory endurance.
The stoics are liars,
their lips trembling
with the same terse curses
and angry anathemas
toward anyone sporting drills
or orthodontia.
Listen to Leonato:
open your mouth and scream.
Pity each thirty-two
enameled square of pain.
Afterwards, you can shoot up
with amnesia or
meditate on your reconstructed memory or
compose insightful epics on
the ontological components
of suffering and the human shriek.