I, Too, Have Known Them All
With apologies to Eliot, Orwell, Pound and Nash

And I, too, have known them all already,
have known the drunkards touting faith,
known the streets that lead to an overwhelming
and nauseatingly familiar argument.
Have know the faces, idle talk and double-think,
the worn-out logical fallacies, the liars—well-paid—in public places.
They walked eye-deep in hell,
and neither drowned nor scrambled for shore,
but vegetated, calm and aesthetic,
on the stage, on the screen, in the choir.

An Absurd Death

With overcoat snug and with cigarette burning,

he crossed from Algiers to follow his studies.

Sickness deterred, but was promptly beaten,

and what followed were strangers and a stone that sweetened

what was otherwise a meaningless battle—

it empowered the free to break from the chattel.

But an untimely departure must have been imminent.

After telling of Sisyphus and judges penitent,

and searching for meaning where it’s found at a price,

meaning and lack thereof was his vice.

His letters were lauded on the world’s sacred stages,

leading philosophers and fools to pore over his pages.

He brought many to terms with their anguish and pain,

and more would surely have come—if he’d taken the train.

Daylight Savings Time: A Lesson in Skepticism

Ben Franklin wanted more daylight,

so, of course, we followed suit.

For this, a little more night at daybreak,

and a little less sleep to boot.

But clocks, devices of man they are,

need help to haste the day.

So check them twice at first, at least,

or else you’ll lose your way.

And this because, given the chance,

they’ll leave you in a bind.

With clocks misset by happenstance,

You’ll think you’ve lost your mind.

A Telling

Amid the sounds of ringing bottles,

steins, glasses with drink,

a moment comes and passes—

it transcends the mindless ranks.

A pair, fool and scholar,

passes through the smoky rooms

and perceives what eludes the masses,

like clouds pass, eclipsing the moon.

Haphazard risk of toil and tisk,

newly arranged in the den.

A decanter of synthetic decorative wine,

a bottle with embers within.

A clock chimes in the breaking day

while words rein in a dream.

Several—no, bunches—of thoughts belie

a fear too vague to glean.

A new order tells of a telling to come,

the page falls at your feet.

A courier carries an intimate note

while vandals run in the street.

At the recommendation of a few esteemed colleagues, namely Charlie the Red, I have decided to create a “real” blog. It will probably only contain just what the subtitle at the top of the page suggests, so no holds are barred and no credit shall be due. This, my friends, is the new literary movement you have imagined and perhaps heard about. Maybe you’ve seen it imitated elsewhere. This is a place to gaze at your leisure, without ever having to sail.