The Meaning of Life

The other day Everyman,
with his hamburger soaked beak,
his Roman nose,
his gorilla-black dreads,
his majestic turban,
his "Chaps" slacks,
asked me what I thought was the meaning of life.
I didn't have an inkling but,
being a clearer mirror than a philosopher,
I thought just maybe I could help him see.
So I replied:
"White blood cells,
artillery shells,
a hand-rolled cigarette charitably given by a beautiful, dirt-bathed
old woman,
human lips on a fossilized Triceratops horn,
a large print, illustrated copy of "Hamlet,"
an iguana tail sticking out of a hole in a Mexican ghetto,
the jangling, primitively thinking? monitor as it helps the speakers
bellow: "Still my guitar gently weeps,"
Francis Ford Fortinbras drinking brandy on the overgrown set of
"Apocalypse Now,"
the ghost of Custer wandering the museum battlefield of The Battle of
the Greasy Grass,
the instant when the cord of consciousness snaps,
vital, grizzled cactus roots,
the wrinkles in the neck and balls of Booker T. Washington,
good bread and good cheese."