Welcome To Gnarled Town

The dream is dead. The King of Rome shall not live. I shall never hear the media crunch of the first step upon Mars. I shall never taste the caviar...

When a youthful dagger falls upon wizened Duncan, When a Portland beggar licks clam chowder from the asphalt, When the primeval iguana lashes out his tongue and seizes a sun-dazed butterfly, When a thoughtless parrot fish, with a beautiful maroon beak, hacks a coral meal from the reef, When blood has liquor and liquor has blood and teeth, When the Castillian architect dreams in pressure and support beams, When Trader Dick slashes prices on tuna, When the million-dollar putt falls prey to a gnat, Tell me, friend, what do you call that?

This poem means very little. The market is looking bullish. The troops are winning in Iraq but many lack spiritual fulfillment.

Seek and you shall find; knock and the door shall be opened to you; pray and tranquillity will be granted you.

There's nothing quite like concrete: miracle of abstract chemistry, canvas of gasoline rainbows, foundation of the information economy, the cyanide...