I've spent my lifetime deciphering a certain verse sung by Santa Claus,
And I turn Ninety on January 1st, 2009.
For a man of many words, forty years is a very pregnant pause,
If they can't understand my hermitage, perhaps they'll shut up about my macrobiotic dianetics,
There'll be reckoning for this abortion,
But there's no liability in defense of sunshine,
So I have some of my elves digging thru dumpsters for evidence of the savior's disposed antics.
She is dispersed! There is more to the hen's language than we give credit,
And less to the cock's crow.
To Yoko Ono & John Cage's infinitesimal compositions am I indebted:
If I have to teach a year-long course to get my students to comprehend them, so be it.
Every valley shall be exhumed,
We here highly resolve that the ichthyosaur lived long ago,
And today's thoughts will dissolve, but the dead white ones will be salvation's fiat.
Hush! ye trumpeters & harpies! Light is flooding my secret silence,
Or so thinks the F.B.I.
The figs from the Tree of Knowledge are rotting beneath Leonard Cohen's violins,
White elephants in white hats, at least for a while, at least while confusion reigned,
The polymathy of one designer,
And the abundance of beetles & urchins & cactuses,
And the repetition of ideas, remembered & forgotten, enunciated & annunciated, will all be reclaimed.
And I turn Ninety on January 1st, 2009.
For a man of many words, forty years is a very pregnant pause,
If they can't understand my hermitage, perhaps they'll shut up about my macrobiotic dianetics,
There'll be reckoning for this abortion,
But there's no liability in defense of sunshine,
So I have some of my elves digging thru dumpsters for evidence of the savior's disposed antics.
She is dispersed! There is more to the hen's language than we give credit,
And less to the cock's crow.
To Yoko Ono & John Cage's infinitesimal compositions am I indebted:
If I have to teach a year-long course to get my students to comprehend them, so be it.
Every valley shall be exhumed,
We here highly resolve that the ichthyosaur lived long ago,
And today's thoughts will dissolve, but the dead white ones will be salvation's fiat.
Hush! ye trumpeters & harpies! Light is flooding my secret silence,
Or so thinks the F.B.I.
The figs from the Tree of Knowledge are rotting beneath Leonard Cohen's violins,
White elephants in white hats, at least for a while, at least while confusion reigned,
The polymathy of one designer,
And the abundance of beetles & urchins & cactuses,
And the repetition of ideas, remembered & forgotten, enunciated & annunciated, will all be reclaimed.
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