Finally, something that seems to make sense,
a fan on a steaming simmering summer eve.
The end of poem taste is nigh as books go
bye-bye; words are for the ear, not the eye.
Something stinks under the high court cloak;
politics as usual, they say with a grimace,
In Hell, guests gather around a diamond
water chalice and pray to an abominable
snowman holding a bident for catching fish,
and talk about changes in the weather.
Umbrellas at the beach make sense, but
the wind sometimes turns them into kites.
The dissolution of cities and foot shopping,
uncollecting things, faster baseball games.
The idea of a university wants refreshing;
it was never all-for-one one-for-all anyway.
When your politicos, priests, and professors
are too full of horseradish and bullpucky,
time to restore the toolbox, relax, wait
out the set, and keep watch for the outsider.
Unplug the guitar, walk, skip the commercials.
Listen to the song sparrow building its nest.
Learn to note and trill and adapt at will,
take advice with a grain of salt, not a pill.
Life is not a brand played to a jingle;
it wants not bleach to wash, but a bit
of white vinegar, not to denature critters,
but let hair down and smell the oils.
But don't dichotomize or literary like
criticize. Be as natural as horseradish,
but learn to spot bullpuck before you
step into a pile of it.