Questions I ask to myself, to others, to no one in particular:
What does the poet know that we don't know?
How much iron is in your typical bison burger?
Is deodorant bad for you?
Time is an abstraction, but bones are not.
The last question wasn't a question.
Neither was the last one.
But this one is?
Where are our answers?
Is it going to snow, ever?
Are the trees as thirsty as we are?
Where are my pants?
How have I gone 30 years and 6 months without knowing how to change a light bulb?
Bright idea.
Do I have to put a bandage on my thumb if it is bleeding?
st
Bandages just get wet and fall off.
How do I keep my thumb dry?
There are more paths than there are destinations. Sage Meg!
Should I change my name to Sage?
Should we pull out of these personal wars we've started with ourselves?
Should we learn to love the landmines?
Should we raise our white flags and finally surrender?
(But seriously, get back to me on the iron content in that burger. I'm hungry and have always been hungry.)
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1 comment:
Poets know everything we don't, and nothing else.
There are exactly 10 iron in a bison burger.
Deodorant is good for everyone but you.
Bones are not an abstraction.
No, it wasn't.
No, it wasn't either.
Yes.
Right here.
Yes. Ever.
Yes, So thirsty.
Your pants are absent?
How have you gone thirty years without noticing your pants are absent?
Also not a question.
No.
Yes?
You don't want to know.
You really don't want to know.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes, or how I learned to stop worrying and love the bomb.
Yes.
I told you, there are 10 iron in one bison burger, bison use metric silly.
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