a couple more. Sleep As we lie in our beds a bit of dark slides down the drainpipe gutter. The stars last words enlighten us -- where will the moon hide the blackberries it picked? When the clock leaps off the Brooklyn Bridge, roses bloom in our heads, a snail lets go a silent wail. The houses and streets slip inside the rabbit's white cottontail. A chicken-leg escapes the fridge, hops around the living room. One o'clock will be born soon. Midnight eaten by marauding ants, as we lie in our beds listening to a bit of dark slide down the drainpipe gutter whispering a Jacobean tale as our bones melt like butter. Why Does The Lark Sing Sweetly From Its Grave Why does the lark sing sweetly from its grave? Why does it wait to sing more sweetly beneath the clay? What of nature held it in the world, what sacred truth, if not the unshakable faith of wild flowers? The dead toad croaks more triumpantly, when it perished? It leaps high and higher. The minnows watch in disbelief. What joy awakened in its bones? What spirit gave such gifts? Who absolves the unbearable burdens and sins of old toads and larks? Their piety and arrogance? Their lies and treacherous crimes? Their short, tortured lives, if not the morning light? Nothing, not even starlight, nestled in the dark eternity of night's tall cathedral prepares to show such boundless mercy.
You Are Tired (I Think) You are tired, (I think) Of the always puzzle of living and doing; And so am I. Come with me, then, And we'll leave it far and far away— (Only you and I, understand!) You have played, (I think) And broke the toys you were fondest of, And are a little tired now; Tired of things that break, and— Just tired. So am I. But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight, And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart— Open to me! For I will show you the places Nobody knows, And, if you like, The perfect places of Sleep. Ah, come with me! I'll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon, That floats forever and a day; I'll sing you the jacinth song Of the probable stars; I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream, Until I find the Only Flower, Which shall keep (I think) your little heart While the moon comes out of the sea. e.e. cummings
Some people LIKE thick Some people LIKE thin But It's bout how much you move That makes your heart win We constantly strive for what we see But far too often it's outside of we We meaning I I meaning Me Don't be halted by what you'll never be YOU ARE YOU that's a beautiful thing Make a healthiER YOU I promise you will WIN! -Don't let your shape discourage you from being healthy. If we all looked alike life would be boring. Some people want a thin spouse and some people like a little extra thickness. Not everyone is attracted to the SAME thing. As long as YOU accept who YOU are...that's who someone will love. Happy Sunday and gosh darn it...workout to look good in YOUR BODY! -Sean T
There was a man named Dave Who kept a dead whore in a cave. He said with a grunt This is mighty cold kunt But look at the money I saved.
From Ernest Slyman Epitaphs The poets of the East Village belonged to the ages, rolled their joints with pages torn from phonebooks, and nightly drank a bottle of rum and drifted high above the city, and one by one burst like roman candles - so fame bright lit each one, so fortune slow to come, the critics deaf and dumb, the poets wrote to haunt the coming dark of a generation. Greenwich Village poet Saint Paul suffered a fall, when he slipped on dog dropping in the middle of Bleecker Street; half-conscious, wrote two sonnets on the way to the hospital. Jeremy "the wretch" Thackeray slashed his wrists last night with a piece of glass as he was riding in a taxi. He was taken to Mt Sinai Hospital, where the nurses on the nightshift alas, all smoked grass and asked for autographs. Queen Elizabeth macho-feminist made complex all that was simple, smoked two vials of crack then shot herself in the left temple. The late poet Godfrey Mumpower won two Pulitzers, a gold medal from the Vatican assured his fate, though his obituary recalled his arrest for urinating in the offering plate at St Patrick's cathedral. Tom Hopkins dressed in women's clothing, leaped off the Brooklyn Bridge, freed himself from greed and loathing. Hubert "the Swami" made love to his Mommy, wrote a long poem about it all. Seventeen weeks on the bestseller list. Christmas day an oncoming uptown E-train crushed the brain of poet William B. Brothers and spilled the contents of his skull - a sheaf of papers, two rubbers, a barking dog, three thousand lovers.
Latest from Ernest Language Pardon my lack of manners. I am woefully unable to break an egg. I am afterall merely a stuffed cushion to lie down upon. A pair of comfortable shoes which words wear to work. I am the murmurs sunlight can hear when it places its ear upon the Earth's crust. Sometimes I sit at a public bar and drink beer. My clothes are wrinkled. Hair is mussed. My hands tremble with fear. I rise to speak, I am a handful of dust tossed from a church window. The rose garden plays its lute. A crowd enters a book. What truth will they hear? What truth do they seek? What fortune will they gain from this penniless mute?
One more Love Letter A love letter like C, G, M, J, K, L, Y can catch your eye. The best of them are shy, frail as a summer sky. They wring their hands. They stroll across a line, carrying an umbrella for balance, all looking fine, dressed in stylish clothes, bows in their hair, smiling up at you. Who doesn't wish to woo them? Bring them flowers and chocolates? Tease them? Whisper in their ears? Go ahead. Confess your soul. Be humble. Make of your failures a triumph. Make known your dreams and fears. Hear your timid heart bumble along Love's moonlit street. Your brain an oafish lump. Ask for their hand in marriage. Kneel at their feet, perilous the timeless gambit when smitten lovers meet. Carry them over the threshold, make love to them, morning noon and night. Gather them on a page with a deep-drawn sigh, a tender look in your eye, all nice and polite, and hear them cry and beg for love in the mind's soft blue light?
We were just getting to revere Cuonzo for making such a sweet sixteen run but in a fortnight he is gone so far away for California sun As he left he told his jilted team to remember all the things he said hope they forget his offensive scheme because it was always dead The turn of a page, let's raise a beer I shall miss that shiny head and sneer
Today's Ernest posting. The Alibi Sunlight struck a farm house and killed the cool shade around the oak tree. It was a cruel blow. Why would sunlight do such a thing? The sheriff was called. A mob came with a rope to hang the assassin. Sunlight denied it was there. It claimed it was in the next county, picking apples and playing a banjo.
To elaborate: "Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better." From "Worstward Ho" by Samuel Beckett. It's either poetry or quasi-prose.
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer - A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe; My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North The birth place of Valour, the country of Worth; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below; Farewell to the forrests and wild-hanging woods; Farwell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe; My heart's in the Highlands, whereever I go.
Percy Shelley Ozymandias I met a Traveler from an antique land, Who said, "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read, Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed: And on the pedestal these words appear: "My name is OZYMANDIAS, King of Kings. Look on my works ye Mighty, and despair!" No thing beside remains. Round the decay Of that Colossal Wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away.
I think Hat should hang a sign in his office that says "My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings. Look on my works ye Mighty, and despair!" It fits his personality.
One of my favorites: One had a lovely face, And two or three had charm, But charm and face were in vain Because the mountain grass Cannot but keep the form Where the mountain hare has lain. Memory by William Butler Yeats
