When I doo see a monkies pigmie face, And recognize the thought which it doth owne, And reade a wits awarenesse in its gaze, Ne doo I doubt we are from one roote growne; For there is much in mine owne image showne Such as I witnesse in the beastlie man; And it doth neede one glauncing looke alone To see such features common of a clan. It doth indeede require no lengthy scan To knowe the rabbit cousin to the hare, And he that looketh on the monkies plan Should thus perceive an hairie man is there. And he that doth this certaine truth rebut Is blinde, or he doth see with eies both shut. -_*
Gymnopedist, palate of color,
pince-nez umbrella-man in a bowler,
what playest thou
now? I can’t hear you.
Pound it out on the piano
like an old fish
fresh from yesterday’s catch.
Forte! Sec! Staccato!
Your garden tells time
by the flush-flat gnomon.
It’s cloudy. There is no shine.
It rains lemon
I love explosive, TNT-like thunder,
Dimension-ripping streaks of deadly lightning
That nerve the volted arm-hairs to alerted height’ning,
The wrathful rage that threatens blasts asunder;
The awing, awesome power of nature’s wonder
That electrifies the night to day-like brightness:
Those still frame moment-shocks of watted lightness.
And so it was for me a foolish blunder
To drink enough to dull my senses numb,
And hear those thunderous tones as wrapped in felt,
Reverbing rumbles softened to a hum;
And pummeling rains, that blunt pound pelt by pelt,
Bemuffled to a pattered, drizzled piddle;
And then to pass out, hammered, in the middle—
The “Highland Cathedral” does not get me high:
Bagpipes and organ? You could do it, but why?
It just proves what I’ve said so often while toking:
The best type of pipe is the pipe made for smoking!
I hear Justin Bieber, and God! is it awful!
That god-awful sound should be goddamn unlawful!
His pipes should not sing ‘cuz they’re best used for choking,
And damn it! the best pipes are the pipes made for smoking!
I pick up my pipe, set some kine buds on fire;
I suck down some hits, soaring higher and higher;
And pondering what music right now would most rock,
I realize that the best pipes…are the pipes playing Bach!
But let me step back quick to add an appendix
That’ll make this Bach-lover sound more like Jim Hendrix:
Bach-playing pipes are the very best type,
But Bach’s music is better when you’re smoking a pipe!
Nothing makes me more afraid
Than a number, because it isn’t made;
And though I resist
The thought, I can’t shake it:
Something can exist
Without a maker to make it.