jovial pleasures

june roses  
justify my thirst for  
jovial pleasures  
that cleave the heart  
as the javelin cuts the air.  
nonetheless, not so intoxicate  
that i cannot approximate  
whether dreaming on a jetty  
in the tanzanian serengeti  
can arrive me in  
johannesburg;  
or judge for myself  
whether dialectal hamburgers  
are the idiolectal harbingers  
of every jealous rage  
that plagues the human stage,  
portent of every tired joke  
on which the nerves soon choke  
and jar  
the pregnant page…  

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