The instant that I saw this forest path
I was reminded of Heidegger's way
Of clearing for disclosure of the grey
Reality of presence in the path
Of old coincident concealment of
Whatever is revealed to probing eyes.
We kid ourselves to think that we know lies
From truth, or faith from reason, hate from love.
We don't much care what happens in the sky
Above the trees while trampling through the clods
Of earth containing life in mossy mess.
What are the odds that we discover why
The earth, the sky, the humans, and the gods
Resolve to horizontal nothingness?
It was the seventh game of the World Series
Last of the ninth
Two outs
Bases loaded
We were behind 3-1
The game was in an old linoleum-floored cafeteria
The outfield was an old brick wall of windows to be broken
Our star hitter called me, a mere fan, up from the kitchen
To pinch hit for him
He gave me a fallen oak tree trunk
I grabbed the thin end and stepped into the batter's box
Swinging strike one on a sinker
Ball one low and inside
Called strike two on a fastball right down the middle
End of game
No more pitches thrown
No more chances to hit
I complained to the officials
But they were all Republican
Reconciliation
Sometimes I feel like Dylan's Mr. Jones.
You don't know what that means, do you, you Post-
Millennial? You've not the slightest grasp
of what I mean, or where, or who, or why,
but still you blurt out "OK Boomer" just
as if you do, you in the Hendrix tee
shirt, you don't even know who Hendrix was,
you blatteroon, you puffed up grivet punk,
like Satan and the Germans on a spree,
you're oily, lumpy, and preposterous,
you wear it for the vacuosity
of style, and not at all for Jimi's sake.
Your tiny little weak attention span
won't let our pitchers pitch, our thinkers think,
our civilizers civilize, our good
be good, our talkers talk, our bad reform,
our seekers find what makes a better life,
our sages figure out the flaws that made
our Golden Eras unsustainable.
Are Golden Eras even real for us?
As long as we define enjoying life
as drudging nine to five, five days a week,
then having goofy, hedonistic fun
on only Friday night, all Saturday,
and most of Sunday, we'll be mired in this
unsatisfying age of lead and drones
and plastic lumps of stagnant misery.
But back to Mr. Jones: I'm lost. I'm numb.
I don't know how you get your content or
the reason it amuses you or what
your content is or why you need it so
or what you want or what you plan to do
with it or even if you plan at all.
I've not the slightest grasp of what you mean,
or where, or who, or why, but still I blurt
out stupid slurs, eluding common sense.
I guess it's up to both of us to see
that ignorance and arrogance frustrate
from both perspectives equally and hurt
both ways - to make us smaller than we are.
I'll pour a cup of coffee on your grave.
What good would roses do you? Coffee would
Green up the grass and if a bit of it
Should percolate into your coffin it
Would make your day, if only you could know.
Asleep I write my best but cannot save
A whit to paper when I wake. I should
Realize that sleepers may as well be dead
And dreaming makes a coffin of a bed.
As sleep rehearses death, asleep we go.
Farewell!
hey rube
you bush bakuda
you cannot be yourself in a group
you plug your appliances into the mud
they short out as soon as
you turn them on
your well-meaning neighbours
trample your flowers
uproot your hedge
deny your autogeneity
until you devolve into a
get-off-my-lawn codger curmudgeon
so you sit around
writing stupid haiku
pulling your pud
listening to satellite radio
wondering what life would have been like
if only ...
if only ...
if only ...
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