A randy guard of Buckingham Palace
stood at attention, but so, too, his phallus.
He did his very best -
stock still like all the rest,
but was exposed by tent and hand callus.
Buckingham Palace Limerick
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A gorgeous day:
the sky is blue;
the air is crisp,
and a bird swoops in low
over the field to land
in search of insects.
The sign is kind of a bummer:
It tells me that 13,000
people died here --
most by shitting themselves
into unconsciousness.
(it doesn't use those exact words.)
This is Andersonville --
site of a Civil War prison camp.
Here, I believe in ghosts.
I don't believe in ghosts
when drinking my morning coffee
at my dining room table.
I don't believe in them when I
turn off my bedside lamp.
I don't believe in them anywhere --
anywhere else -- really.
But here they vibrate up
through my boot heals,
and I fear I may
shit myself.
M*A*S*H
Diogenes the Cynic would be a hoot. Alternatively, Zhuangzi (莊子.) Obviously, my tastes run toward a philosopher that could teach me about how to be free, rather than to teach me some sort of rigorous approach to thinking. I’m stocked up on the latter, but in deficit of the former.
(I’m assuming this to be a “living or dead” question scenario. Usually, I prefer to talk to the living, but I don’t think modern academia has been good to the crazy sage philosopher. I might be able to find a Daoist hermit in a cave somewhere or maybe a Tibetan Nyönpa, but I couldn’t say what his or her name would be.)