Poem: Tubular Tubers
of doves in distress emitting foul humors.
Now what would inspire this rank impropriety,
this cunning indictment besmirching society?
A rift is the answer, a chasm, a cleft,
a cleaving, a shearing, a conscience bereft
of feeling and thoughts of the popular kind,
the ones that come straight out of sapien’s mind.
despite the conspiracies you might have heard
spread yonder and far by agents of gloom
whose trickiest trick is to make you assume
that magic exists and compassion reigns.
All that we’re asking is please use your brains,
the ones that God gave you to figure stuff out,
to fill in the blanks and erase all the doubt.
then slowly repent and demonstrate shame
at what you have dreamt and therefore believe:
this vegetable tale attempting to weave
disparate threads of avian life
into a quilt that seems to be rife
with sociopathically raw implications
is pregnant with pauses and meek hesitations.
Admit, confess, declare to the court:
When one imagines plots of this sort
He adds not a jot to the mounting sum total
of new compositions, harmonic and modal.
All one has done is salute to the sun,
having some fun on the black diamond run.