Strum and Dang

Is this a hangnail bugging me, and

if that's the case

in which case will the frumious

blundersnatch hide his self?

This is not my beautiful house. How did I get here?

Am I writing poetry?

And if so,


what's the equation I would balance?

Is all I have questions?

My intonation can't always escalate,

Can it? You'd read this and know my mind.

I'll write it with time out of mind

and knowledge will be a whisper never breathed.

"I grow old, I grow old,

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled."

Nonsense and broken quotations flock about my brain,

a parliament of rooks,

an unkindness of ravens,

a murder of crows,

flapping and cawing for my leavened attention.

I'm walking silent halls with a noisy mind

and all I can find on the two endless walls

are the stenciled words of others.


this the way the world ends? Not with a harangue,

But a simper?

"I beg of you, have patience with all that remains unresolved in your heart..."

Prose, now, too? Enough! Enow! E'en now!

Some days a little nonsense is all that can be said about one's life. To paraphrase

Fight Club

: We're a generation of children raised on Dr. Seuss. I'm beginning to wonder if another poet is really the answer.