Grasping

The human mind is not capable of

grasping the Universe

The human

mind is not grapable of casping

the Universe

The not-Universe human is crasping

the not-grapable mind

Grasping the mind is not

the capable Universe

The mind of the Universe is not

not casping the grapable

Mind of human not

not-human

Capable universe

Of not is not

Grasp. Grasp. Grasp. Grasp.

Caught

That is not a very good poem, said the fly to the spider

Referring to its web

No, I’m afraid you misunderstand, said the spider

It is not a poem, but a net of silk threads to entrap you.

Dangerous

You might think there’s nothing more dangerous than a dangerous, dangerous dinosaur riding a dangerous, dangerous dirt bike over a dangerous, dangerous desert full of dangerous, dangerous dungeons.
But the most dangerous is not to know your own mind.

The Peg-Legged Beggar

The peg-legged beggar near the bridge

Observes the stream go by

The sun is hot; he sees a hawk

And hears a field mouse cry.

He dips his non-peg-leg inside

The ever-rushing stream

The sun collects itself into

A burning noon-light beam.

He doesn’t feel refreshed

To feel the stream on non-peg skin

He switches; dips inside the stream

His worn and wooden limb.

At last, a rush of calm and cool!

His peg-leg cannot feel

But wood is wise, and has a knack

For sensing out the real.

Crazy Old Man

I am a typical-looking old man and I went to a public bathroom

There was an image of an old man there

“Are you a mirror?” I asked the image

“No, I’m another old man,” said the image

I was frightened, and ran off

Back to my home, which I know has some mirrors

I know I should be grateful that I’m not the only old man in the world

But I wish I could tell the difference better between Mirrors and Other Me’s.

Gastronomic Recidivism

One time, alone

I ate

A thing

I shouldn’t have.

It was

A thing

I shouldn’t eat

(I ate).

I wish that I

Could say

I never

Ate

That thing

Again.

But once

Is not

Enough

For eating

Things

You shouldn’t

Eat.

The Witch

Good riddance
Said the witch
She had just burned off the wart
That had once defined her sense of beauty and identity.

Mice Inside My Oven Mitt

There's mice inside my oven mitt
But take them out, I can't
'Cause when I try to dump them
I hear their morbid chant
"We're mice inside your oven mitt
And here's where we belong
If you evict us, all the world
Will crumble, rot and wrong.
The trees will melt, the dust will cry
The plants will wring and coil
The air will stench, the fur will shrink
The ponds will seethe and boil.
Black-putrid will be mothers milk
Choked dead the bluebirds' song

Sulfuric smoke, the once-pure air

The winter ten months long.

The earth will flood, then shrink and starve

From never-ending drought

So keep us in your oven mitt

And do not dump us out.”

Death to the Terrorist

We caught the terrorist!

and found that all his organs were made of glass.

He was sentenced to death,

and because I was that year’s Beauty Queen

I was also the Executioner.

Hair in curls, lipstick red

I took him to sea on a boat

and dumped him overboard.

“Drown, terrorist, drown!” I screamed

But before his glass lungs could fill up with water

he was crunched by the glass-eating mermaids.