Toward a Theory of Beauty: Louis C. K.

I want to tell Louis C. K. how gorgeous he is.
Tell him to knock off the jokes
about his sloppy ass and red hair-
lessness and drive him to the country,
tell him hush. Hush, Louie. Hush.

What you do, I would tell him, even though
he knows what he does, is twist human
pain into balloon animals.

We laugh at the grotesque squeaks
of their creation, our hearts break
over the big ears, the tiny weight,
every one as fragile as an exploding cigar.

In the car, his breath would bloom
white and round as a speechless speech
bubble, fall apart in fraught frozen air.
He would maintain a perfect measure
of silence, let the snow-clotted acres
whiz past, turn to me and say,
You are such a pretentious asshole.

And this is the most pretentious part
of the poem, post-punch line,
where the camera lingers too long
on Louie’s confectionary leer,
where I make it extra clear his grin is
gravespun sugar,

shitdipped cinnamon,

a pastry full of smog.

Anyone else would know it’s his show.
Anyone else would shut up,
put on Night Ranger and roll, baby,
to the perfect dumb thunder.

Front page image by mielconejo.

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