Every few days a villager steps from his hut
only to be killed by a falling coconut.
It’s a death with the taint of the inglorious.
Dying should somehow be more laborious.
But what’s more the mark of courage and grace,
than causing people to smile at Death in its face?
A life punctuated by one misstep is not to be bemoaned.
It beats a life whose living has been indefinitely postponed.
I ambled out the gate, down the street, and noticed:
Well, you can imagine what I thought,
I’ve fallen in with a zombie horde!
But, how to check?
Somehow asking,
“What is your stance on raw brain?”
seemed awkward.
So I concluded that I was—unquestionably—among zombies.
A sadness followed.
Couldn’t they smell that my brains were fresh, disease-free, and everything a Zombie finds delicious?
Did they know something that I didn’t?
Had my brain gone bad without my knowing?
And how could one ever know whether the thing one knows with is sour?
The sadness was short-lived.
A dilemma followed.
For I saw a man walking toward me, against the horde’s flow.
If I didn’t club him in head and try to eat his brain—given his clear unhorde-like behavior–would the horde realize that I was an imposter?
If I did… Well, I would be worse than Tom Hanks trying to get into that coconut in “Cast Away.”
Quite frankly, I had no idea how to get to the brains.
Should that be something I should know?
A piece of common knowledge I’d lost when my brain curdled?
But the horde didn’t descend on the man.
So I concluded it was–unquestionably–a defective zombie horde.
And I went about my day.
I’m like a Pyongyang refugee.
Detergent, far as the eye can see.
In some Seoul department store,
on the cleaning products floor.
I reject your bolder and your brighter
like a Smurf-smashing gorilla fighter.
It’s the same stuff, different box.
I’ll go beat my britches on the rocks.
Taken along the road to Pangong Tso in August of 2016
The one on the bottom was rocking out, singing “Don’t Stop Believin'” by Journey into an air mic. Not really, but you can imagine it, can’t you? In fact, I bet you now have that tune stuck in your head. You’re welcome.
“What do you want to BE when you grow up?”
They ask you when you’re just a little pup.
So, what part of what I must BE,
is different from the me you see?
Dad thought, “the part that they’ll pay you for.”
Like an allowance for finishing a chore?
“Yes, young man, but you can safely assume,
no one else will pay you to clean your room.”
Kids don’t think of being gainfully employed.
Which seems to make grownups quite annoyed.
At five, I wanted to be a cowboy.
“Son, there’s no jobs in that line of employ.”
That’s OK, then I’ll be an Indian.
“You’d have to be born that way, my friend.”
I wasn’t born a doctor, but you said that’s OK.
“That’s not the same, son, what can I say?”
I know what then, Dad, I’ll be the Batman!
“Come on, son, that’s not a feasible plan.”
You’re thinking Superman, Batman has no powers.
“Bruce Wayne by day, Batman at night, where’s the sleeping hours.”
You have a point there, you’ve got me stumped.
Thinking myself prematurely defunct.
Taken on July 3, 2016 in Kolkata
Above: Is This Racist?
Below: Orgasmic Dolphin
Source: cliparts.co
I have a particular set of skills.
No, not ones that pay the bills.
While Liam Neeson may kick some ass,
my skills are more in the realm of sass.
My course won’t teach you a spinning kick,
or how to head-butt to a brick.
No, nothing so stoic or taciturn,
for mine is the art of the kung fu burn.
If you wish to unleash the power of derision,
tell them their kung fu lacks vigor and precision.
If that has not the effect desired,
tell them their kung fu is sloppy and uninspired.
If you haven’t yet gotten their goat,
tell them their moves makes vomit rise to your throat.
That’s just a sampler; wisdom ain’t free.
But you can learn more for a nominal fee.
[Disclosure]
Just one thing, whatever you do.
Don’t use against anyone who knows kung fu.
(Even the old ladies who do Tai Chi in the park,
may rip you apart like a school of bull sharks.)
memory, she’s a fickle cow
you can never have one in the now
and why are the memories best of those who need them least
should not as your age grows great your memory too increase
an eight year old has no need of keys but he can tell you where they are
for me the point is quite moot cause I’ve forgotten where’s the car
more and more I’m less and less certain of what memories were dreams
I clearly remember posting that bill cause I passed a yeti eating ice-cream
a woman watching 60 Minutes was robbed, but cops called her a loony
you see the old girl was quite sure she’d been burgled by Andy Rooney
now it’s time for me to bring this poem to a close
I had a much better bit but have forgotten how it goes
I passed a man on the street,
in the brutal noonday heat.
Blending in, but for his Tee.
It read, “Nothing is as it seems.”
I said, “Ain’t that the truth, brother.”
He walked on, like all the others.
A message sent on the sly?
From some watcher in the sky?
How’d he know it’d draw my eye?
And not be taken for a lie?
Maybe my will is not so free,
and what I “know” isn’t reality.
[Later that day…]
Rev. screamed, “We’re living in a simulation!”
“Friends, this ain’t no pre-apocalyptic nation.”
“Aliens watch us on their reality-TV station.”
“All I can offer is a bargain spaceship vacation.”
I distrust those who shout from a box,
and distrust more the joining of flocks.
But the kook’s words rattled in my mind.
Maybe lunatics get things right sometime.
What if the world is just a simulated grind,
and passersby just figments of my mind?
If this world is fake, should I abstain?
Or try much harder to entertain?
Baby, I dig your bipedal ways
You could chase down wounded game for days
And walking around on just two feet
You can forage in the mid-day heat
When it’s too hot for those big ole cats
Who bully their way through our habitat
My dearest, it simply makes me drool
When I see you working with a tool
Thumbs opposable, and shoulders free
I’m awed when you throw stones at me
Just imagine how I shed a tear
When I see you chuck a pointy spear
And that prefrontal cortex, oh my lord
You could plan the move of a nomadic horde
One day you’ll be able to add, and subtract
You’ll think–and paint–in the abstract
You just need vocal cords of greater dexterity
To express yourself with heightened clarity
[not in grunts and stone throwing]
True, you’re not the strongest of the apes
And while tigers race you barely traipse
Monkeys climb, swinging tree to tree
You lack arm strength and dexterity
Still, there’s something about you that I just can’t deny
Though you share sixty percent DNA with a fruit fly
You’re so evolved
Tiger Riding for Beginners 