If the Latin language isn't a subject for poetry, what is?
an infant tile grew to know to undersell's to overblow the house we cover has no price and roof tacks are no paradise
Babbling carelessly down The garrulous way of the fox, He found himself far from the town Where populi wasn’t that vox He asked for another concern, But there were no others about — His mind could find no place to turn Without a convention to flout For the wood and the leaves and the dirt … Continue reading "The Way of The Fox"
So, I was here watching Schrödinger’s cat, Now it’s both dead and alive: How it has managed this, I do not know. Somehow, though, it did contrive So both to be and to not-be at once Putting poor Hamlet to shame: So the old Law of Non-Contradiction’s Broken, and I am to blame. So in … Continue reading "Schrödinger’s Cat"
I dreamed of paramecium Turned into neighborhoods; A type of micro/macro world Of unicell canned goods I don’t know where the setting was, In Pittsburgh or Korea — I just know that it did contain The germ of an Idea
I mistook her usage.
Engulfed in waves of pestilence That’s raining down upon me Contagion and concupiscence In lust that’s all around me If everything I knew was ever Turned into a play; I’d leave the throttle open wide And move to Santa Fe And there, I’ll build a picket fence Of biological defense Whatever there might be expense … Continue reading "Waves of Pestilence"
On the confusion of depression --
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, … Continue reading "Hole (An Autocorrect Poem)"