Wednesday, May 22, 2013

The Snow, Man

One must have a mind of Hitler
And been alone a long time
Not to hear one’s own flatulence in the wind;

To behold the junipers shagged with vice
In the distant glitter like January Jones
And not to scoff at one’s so-called love life;

And be crusted with crap, not to see
Any hilarity in the life of a squirrel,
In the lives of a few squirrels,

Which is the life of the mind
Full of the same souvenirs
Buried and reburied in the same bar,

For the ditherer, who dithers in the snow,
And, blotto himself, beholds
Nut that is not there and the nut that is.

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