My doctor says that I should x,
But I am through with x’ing;
For every x, there is a “y” —
The whole thing’s rather vexing.
So many known unknown unknowns;
They vary in the passing —
My doctor says, if I’d be whole
I need to quit half-assing
My mind and body are my own,
Except, they go where he goes;
He looks at wax inside my ears
For reasons only he knows
He’s late, and so I sit and wait;
My schedule rearranging —
My doctor says that I should x,
But “x” keeps fricking
Changing
Yellow, orange, green, and gold,
In a world devoid of drama,
Unless you can find some in
Inclusion of
An Oxford comma
stacks of rocks are very zen. i don't know why. that's it. the end.
A bokeh is okay if
Used for effect;
But for blur to occur
May mean eyesight is
Wrecked
Thanksgiving is a holiday celebrated in the United States
And where we share the traditional slices of pizza
With passers-by in a spirit of goodwill
Engendered by the grateful good spirits created by our political process
And where celebrate our gratitude through
Our wholesale appropriation of the food of other cultures,
And music for that matter,
Via a public ritual of immolation by family
Before returing to the streets in our hipster garb
To hand out more pizza
Pumpkins: we place them with Halloween
By season and tradition,
But I could not help but wondering,
And had a faint suspicion
That something more sinister may be there,
Though their patches might look sleepy —
In autumn, do pumpkins use human spice?
‘Cause that would just
Be creepy
I can’t afford a castle,
And I’ve not nails or boards
To build some sort of fort where we’d
Be safe from angry hordes —
But if you’d like to live within
A crystal sphere with me,
I’ll color it with star shine,
And place it by the sea.
I cannot build a palace,
And post an honor guard;
I’ve never been a lucky man
By birth or skill or card —
But if you’d like to wake to gulls
And leave forever fear,
Then live with me, and be my love
Within my crystal sphere.
But it will not be anything I do —
The magic will be all because
Of you
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
linguacide
