Priests

Balthusian’s first love was nine years old;

All others have been measured against her;

She was taller than he.

 

In the way of children, he did not so much as kiss her.

She went off with a boy taller than she was.

Then she went off with one still taller.

 

She married that one;

She discovered he could not have children.

 

In her disappointment, she at length

Returned to Balthusian.  She said:

 

“What do you think, Balthusian,

Should I have waited?”

 

He realized that she was simply curious;

He hung on her every word,

 

Until he became quite short of breath,

Even tho he was now taller.

 

He loosened his collar,

And did not think of priests.

Macbeth Does Not Remind Me of Pasta

I walked 40 minutes to stand in line for a coffee and confetti

sprung to my mind.

I never think about confetti, or spaghetti, or yeti;.

Perhaps it is the last two syllables…

An unusual allergy for which there is no remedy.

No remedy for love, or lust, either, one of them most of all.  Ah,

Those things for which there’ll be no remedy, no cure, no surcease,

Until the last two syllables of recorded time…for instance,

That enchanting young girl with the big shoes,

It is the shoes which cause despair, all else

Endurable if it were not for them.

To live is to embrace what you cannot endure, and, therefore,

Tread water frantically,

Knowing you shall soon be spat upon by a noodle end;

Life is pasta sauce on a clean shirt,

Only noticed at its most embarrassing.

I think that, unfortunately, a wookie is really a yeti,

So I can no longer watch Star Wars,  just as

I can no longer use a three-hole punch…

The little bits all look like confetti,

Impossible to vacuum—thus, I avoid weddings.

Yet, (or yeti) all things being unequal in nature,

I am driven to confront those last two syllables

Just in case, recorded somewhere on mp3 or granite

Desperately twirling the spaghetti about the great fork of existence,

Knowing you shall soon be spat upon by a vagrant noodle end;

Life is pasta sauce on a clean shirt,

Only noticed at its most embarrassing…

I think a wookie is really a yeti,

So I can no longer watch Star Wars.

Nor can I use a three-hole punch,

The little bits all look like confetti.

I spurn weddings, therefore.

Yet, or yeti, all things being somewhat unequal,

I am driven to confront those last two syllables,

Of time, recorded on mp3 or granite slabs on Sinai,

Just in case the end of the world is spaghetti;

I must, therefore, devise a sauce.

 

Almost baba rumdummy

The Leonard Cohen verse about “when you’ve done a line or two”…reminded me of one notable occasion with a dollar rolled into a tube.

 

I did a couple of lines

listening to Be Here Now,

and I was there, then.

Everything is profound

when you breath through a dollar.

I never noticed it cease is weightiness.

Perhaps that is significant.

See!  despite all

I have not rid myself of perhaps.

So, just

perhaps

I never snorted those lines at all,

or,

perhaps

it was just icing sugar

and I am thinking as through a layer cake,

or perhaps,

my brain has become Turkish delight

and,  damn it! damn it!

I cannot determine

if I am lemon or rosewater.

But I take heart

that if it is indeed frosted over

I am protected from inedibility

by the words of Baba

filtered through a cloud of unknowing

by that line of whatever it was,

it was,

and thank karma there were two.