Books: The Emerald City of Oz

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If you’ve never seen living Cuttenclips, or Fuddles
Or listened to Rigmaroles or Flutterbudgets
Or traveled to Utensia, Bunbury, or Bunnybury
And if you’ve never listened to a zebra arguing geography with a crab —

If you’ve never trembled before the united armies of
The Growleywogs, Phanfasms and Whimsies
United under the Nome King —

If you think that Oz is a place for movies and musicals —

Then you’ve never read this book 

And I feel kind of sorry for you

This Particular Bar

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Distilled essence of desperation
Mirrors and smoke, sawdust and whiskey
A suburban subculture concentration
A shot of bravery without being too risky

Men who’d have a hard time getting a character witness
Women whose previous choices don’t bear close inspection
Drinking themselves very close to witless
Hoping to make some sort of lubricated connection

But withal, full of hope for this new night
Maybe a future they won’t have to fudge
One more dizzying chance to get it right
And who the hell am I to sit and judge

My Apology

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If I was on trial for just being me
I do not think it would go well:
I’ve always been me from what all I can see
And will be, from what I can tell.

I tried to be someone else once, to find out
If this could work out as a plus:
But found with alarm and complete lack of doubt
That I was still he was still us.

And so all of me must continue to be
My own most consistent amigo;
Though friend to myself I might be, ardently
I still cannot leggo my ego.