Just not the famous one.
The one who would have liked it
Would have tastes second to none.
He’d love the river and the mills,
The green and woody rolling hills;
He would like, I guess, the rain
Which is, these days, my morning pain.
And if Tertullian was mayor
I think he’d see, from over there
In Carthage, where he used to fare
That our roads are in disrepair.
Perhaps to fix them he’d would be
Wrapped up in obscure heresy
Of the old Montanist kind
But, oops, I think that I’ve been blind
Cause I forgot
That he was not
That Tertullian at all
Some other one I don’t recall
Since I don’t live in Carthage, I
Will end this post
And say goodbye
It’s time to hit the panic mutton.
I mean, I’m a bundle of nerds.
We’re all waiting here, with braided breath —
Come on, you know what I’m talking about. We are all on tenderhooves here.
Oh, don’t be so tongue tight.
It is time to hit the panic mutton, I think.
Good. I’m glad we’re on the same wavelet.
Yes. Talk is sheep.
Your presence gives me hole —
As though a week was lifted from my shoulder —
I kosher it’s just a trope,
The kind we entertain as we get okra —
You wear it like a diary
That sparkles in the sketch,
Inline to you for everything
And you donut ask why —
Your live, it gives me hope:
It’s like the kiss that signature Spring
The hole you place
flecks of salt and pepper snow
ripples in the banks of time
icicles that hang and grow
succulence of rind and lime
there, the cabin licorice
sweet as all but candy lays
take the time and make a wish
its home for
It used to be, disorder was
The rule of my existence;
But then I found these magic cats,
And learned about persistence
They taught me about liberty,
And honor, and adventure:
I came to realize my life
Was little but indenture
A bit of sallow love within
A skin of pure corruption,
That I'd have stayed within, except
For their kind interruption
Some cannot see them, so they say
That this is all fantasia:
Or that I am imagining,
Or suffer from dysphasia
One of them traveled from Saint-Priest,
Another from Kamchatka,
Another from South Florida,
I think it's called Palatka
They said my spirit had a cold
And needed some ablation;
As stuck as I had been within
The concept of causation
And so I sold my house and land,
And traveled to Alsatia,
To find some Gentianaceae,
Perhaps some stray Sabbatia
For magic herbs and remedies,
And parts of geomancy,
Were just a bit of what they've taught -
Whatever's caught their fancy --
I travel now around the world
With these three as instructors:
And lead but half an orchestra
Like most semiconductors
If none of this makes sense to you,
And seems like thought transference,
Then find yourself some magic cats,
And we will reach concurrence
Agreement: it's the end of life,
The start of life, its middle --
And every trio comes in threes,
It's just part of
There once was a man from Atlanta
Who said to me, “this is nirvana.”
I’d say all time
Those two words shouldn’t rhyme,
But he thought that I was banana.
(“A Man from Atlanta” – 7-5-2017)
i loved you once, or maybe twice –
it kind of sucked, or it was nice —
but you were everything to me,
or sort of great to some degree,
or maybe kind of, really, there —
i don’t recall, and i don’t care.
i saved the word from harrows once:
i was the world’s most brilliant dunce.
i used my superpowered wit
to vanquish each and every twit
who chose their vacancies to share:
or maybe. i don’t really care.
the doorbell rang. it was a man
who said they’re taking me away
to where the people never work
and see a doctor every day:
it sounded good, i thought, and so
i left behind that desk and chair —
i found that things don’t go that well
when i decide that i