fiddle-faddle, that’s my name:
spouting nonsense is my shame.
drove me from my lands and nation,
here to live as a crustacean,
without followers who follow
in a shack in sao paulo,
til the man says, “you skedaddle!”
i’ll indulge in fiddle-faddle.

stuff and nonsense, that’s my life:
if you doubt, just ask my wife.
with brazilian clams i’m dwelling,
both miswriting and misspelling,
hating air and breathing water,
envious of eel and otter —
til the man says, “that’s enough!”
i’ll have nonsense with my stuff.

linguacide’s my undertaking:
bending words until they’re breaking.
try this next one on for size —
seven tulips are the prize —
it’s my right and heritage
to mismangle verbiage.
bye for now. enjoy the ride.
you just witnessed


Tell A Tale of Tall Trees

[An exercise in cribbing another poem’s metrical patterns. – Owen]

Tell a tale of tall trees,
A thicket full of woe;
Shadows in the black land,
Miles yet to go.

When the shadows moved, then,
The earth began to see —
Wasn’t that the oddest place
For you and me to be?

For you were in your waiting-phase
Waiting in a fashion,
And I was in a torpor
Longing after passion,

So we were in the orchard
Looking for a sign,
When in came the locusts
Who drank all our wine.