GRUNTing pigs, their piggy lives
ODDLY compelling to a hungry,
UNWED, self-exiled profligate. Can’t
AVOID the thought: if there’s a next time, I’ll listen to Dad.
Category: ohthatwright
Father Coughlin
SINCE Eden, we’ve a disposition to
USURP what is not ours;
RADIO merely changed the scale,
SWORN thieves of our attention now beaming into living rooms.
Tucker Out
SATIN smooth, you seize the seat of
SCOFFers, urge your camp in honied tones to
CRASH and plunder, to mint contempt as money.
SMIRK on; comes the end, soul is forfeit,
and nothing owned.
Epistemic Erosion
CHOCK full of gems was old Immanuel Kant,
MAXIM of our deeds: what we ourselves would want.
LOOPY that one against moral chicanery
ERODEd faith in our mental machinery.
Elopement
TENOR of the story: first taste of a sourdough
BOULE, ordered in a bakery, was divine.
ELOPE? Yes, the bread decided it–for life holds unexpected treasures!
SHOWY? Yes. Yet, she has not regretted it.
To Walk Again Beneath the Sun
BEVELs glint from shuddering screens as charges blast,
SONAR pings and pulses from ships above.
EXILEs enclosed in capsule hold and breathe,
RENEW their prayer to walk again beneath the sun.
A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World
ENJOY the mirror’s reproduction. What there stood as
SPOOF, we could bear, discern as truth: Our
NASTY nature, its grubbing drives, hasty casting off of every good.
DEALT at remove, we laugh. Yet, it’s the air we breathe, aloof.
Prufrock has Toothache
MOLAR pain. Prufrock, pondering again whether to propose, to
MARRY, but can’t think straight for pain. Will there be time enough? Or will time, a cat, slink away like coiling smoke into the night,
OPTIC trace decaying in the fading light? Pain, held at bay with
DROLL musings, unspoken to his peers. Pain, and droll, and fear: does… Continue reading Prufrock has Toothache
Stranded 2
JUICE. His parched dreams are jumble of guava, berries, citrus.
SPRIG of negligible shrub, its fibrous leaves make for lunch.
FAITH in a rescue at times waxes, mostly wanes. He fantasizes simple fare:
PENNE pasta in an Arrabbiata sauce.
Stranded
ATOLL, stranded chef paces. He’d rather be making
SAUCE. Instead he must
BROOK matters existential. How long can he last? When rescuers arrive, can he yet
CRAWL toward them. Will food ever be a luxury again?