The Philosopher: Yesterday’s history, tomorrow’s a mystery; today is a gift, that’s why I call it the Present.
I’ll spin you a
yarn:
We go bowling every
Friday;
this
is like trying to
get a strike
after another
strike;
instead, and
inevitably, it seems,
it polishes the
gutter,
from which we can
only see the stars
— or at least,
stars,
and are drowned in
the minutiae of failure.
When it goes right
it is like the
guiding hand of a deity
who oddly operates
at random
or the sad,
principled Poet
who never won a
competition,
save Tattslotto.
ha ha ha
But I am getting
sidetracked
(a good thing the
trains aren’t running today)
searching for this
is what we must do:
in many ways, it’s
better than sex (like comedy) —
this meaning of it
all,
as we homespun
philosophers have it,
what does it mean?
Diddly-squat one
minute and then
scoring a turkey.
This made me laugh. I swore off *this* in this morning’s poem which is a bit about this *this*. But I know, at some point, this will creep back in under cover of that.
ReplyDeleteThis is true! :)
ReplyDeletelol
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