Sunday, August 25, 2013

A Case of Indolence

I wasn't lazy when July began,
But August started, and for five straight weeks
I hugged the sofa cushions with both cheeks.
There was some problem with the ceiling fan,
While I developed nothing like a plan —
I checked the kitchen sink and pipes for leaks
And thought a lot about the ancient Greeks,
Profound ideas measureless to man.

Once Labour Day had passed, I changed my mind
About the need for thinking, and the act
Of thoroughly examining each fact
Through testing, analytics, double blind,
And parsing grammar was duly refined
Into one small valise, carefully packed.

Saturday, August 10, 2013

The World Is Run by Assholes

I check my mail this morning, and I read
My friend Paul is distressed at what we see,
And sends me dire predictions, contumely,
And harsh remarks of whole worlds gone to seed,
A botched civilization. Quite the screed,
Albeit thoroughly concise, and free
Of unearned loathing. We could save one tree,
However, even while our poor hearts bleed.

The world is run by assholes? I guess so,
And could we run it better? I'd say yes,
Although that, too, would have to be a guess.
I don't think poetry makes green things grow,
But we are saxifrage. Here's what I know:
The world has always been a goddam mess.

Sunday, August 04, 2013


My thesis is that in a cold, dry year
The grapes are poor because they have no hearts,
And need the sun. Before the summer starts
Wine is conceptual, its growth unclear,
The fall, the future, built on hope and fear.
Time breaks up into seven hundred parts,
We celebrate the old vines, the old arts,
The old ways, old crafts, energy and cheer.

My lips are chapped, I'm ill at ease and drunk;
The room has stopped its spinning — that's the key —
But these persistent migraines stay with me.
I'm thinking of the grapes left in my trunk
With anemometers and other junk
I used to prove my thesis, cannily.