Ode
Dawn
yawn. Early birds there where
the lawn got late yestreen mown,
sufficiently scalped for early worms to surface, more hurly
than burly, extra-early, just in time for the Checkerboard farm news
and some enterprising darkling cardinals' prayer breakfast
among dew-dandelions and honeysucklings.
What a lot of bah humbug there is out there in the world today.
Breathing I look uncaring (much) out the window of my room here
giving the old east a look-see:
vagaries, crates, vicissitudes, and crates
red-lettered INDEPENDENT APPLES .
Much geography, little history, some math, zero civics.
A good deal of bah humbug is botany and meteorology
so that about all that I have to want to say here now
is what a fine dandy thing it is that I remain patient
with bah humbug
and as a matter of fact even fond thereof
because if
I should become impatient-with
or contemptuous-of
bah humbug
then (look out), believe you me, the world would be
in big
trouble,
and so would I (in this so lyric fishbowl) be, too.
Accordingly, somewhat in the admirable if naïve manner of Margaret Fuller, I
am in a position to announce—while, figuratively speaking,
flinging wide my hyperkinetic arms—I accept the bah humbug,
because in the absence of it
just what do you reckon there would be?
Let's see:
a cyclone fence and a hurricane lamp, I imagine,
a snow plow and a (metaphoric) storm door, and
a mob of determined morons
bent on retailing me a new mower for my lawn
and a Virgin Mary tumbler for my gone-to-seed toothbrush
to besweeten my fated breath on the way out, its exit stroke,
and O
snapshots by someone—Curt Bruce, that's it—to go with the Gita,
and an eon's supply of a new sleep pill they call Sinequan.
Those guys are going to find full-time work waiting for them in hell,
in the marketing section, thinking up names for newborn demons: Infido,
Yoganil, Placidel, Zeroidin, Quaalude, Seamstench, Carbondale, Nadael. . . .
Without perfunctory universes, furthermore, without the classic kosmoi
of that good old bah humbug, there would be
Scrooge waxing in his old age madly good
and Tiny Tim jammed ex machina athwart his own
lucidly ordained destiny of permanent impotence
and, living unlimping forever, to compete
for all I know
in all the Olympics until
Apocalypse's summa karma kingdom comes,
Indian summer to end all Indian summers.
To all those broadcast-frequency upanishads of bah humbug out the rhyme-scheme window, then,
I think I prefer
(for today) the smaller installments of bah humbug
inside,
modest shipments of music yia radio, a cake to bake,
furnage to be figured, Saturday cartoons
permitting television to express its essential self
(i.e., cathode, anode, ditto—preSocratic), this wee
ode to breathe out extemporaneous and (a dog watch) type
on what is after all the only really Royal thing in this house,
antique machine in perfect
working
order
though over thirty years old, the dear enigmatic bah humbug
of Q W E R T Y which
is where I conclude
both integumentally and conceptually,
as
a revival preacher, heaven-for-leather
and leather-for-lung,
ought to stop
in his evangelical tracks
when he looks pentecostally down and,
instead of calling for the
sick lame halt deaf dumb and bald of mind
to be healed through grace by faith and all that,
recognizes in a flash (drummerblam) that Paul
was nothing more than a master of business administration
with minors in Greek and retail merchandising, all to all,
crook to the crook, Jew Jew, whereupon scales
of pastoral care drop clamorous
from his missionary eyes
and he says,
“Choir, you hush. Ushers,
stop right now
on that apostolic dime, you there
with those long-handled collection plates
like long spoons for devil dinners.
You saviors and ye saviees, call a halt
to all this
soling of sawdust up and down the carpet
and
with me
see
O
how unutterably jejune and otiose
be all the uses of this bah and humbug world;
and just
cease.”
Breathe, brethren,
the fact that a scant handful
of added flats will effect
the modulation from bah humbug
to blah ho hum, as
of
an
August Saturday sort of under-overcast
so that the sun (absconditus)
exhibits roughly as much character
as a vacant-lot second base
in the late innings
of a game transacted, trafficked among American boys
obstreperous as the Epworth Poltergeist—
the present is a present (present);
breathe, brethren, where, among
honeysuck, a jalopy
accomplishes the distinguishing dignity
of both botany and machinery,
by and
by subsiding
into some no-thing's-land of
rust (metal) and
rust (blossom-blight),
a unicorn's skeleton prodigious
among the compounded shadows of an apple-colored rose,
all in the changing shade
of a telepathic oak
telling generations of shadow-tailed squirrels
to bury them acorns deep, boys.
Dawn
yawn. Early birds there where
the lawn got late yestreen mown,
sufficiently scalped for early worms to surface, more hurly
than burly, extra-early, just in time for the Checkerboard farm news
and some enterprising darkling cardinals' prayer breakfast
among dew-dandelions and honeysucklings.
What a lot of bah humbug there is out there in the world today.
Breathing I look uncaring (much) out the window of my room here
giving the old east a look-see:
vagaries, crates, vicissitudes, and crates
red-lettered INDEPENDENT APPLES .
Much geography, little history, some math, zero civics.
A good deal of bah humbug is botany and meteorology
so that about all that I have to want to say here now
is what a fine dandy thing it is that I remain patient
with bah humbug
and as a matter of fact even fond thereof
because if
I should become impatient-with
or contemptuous-of
bah humbug
then (look out), believe you me, the world would be
in big
trouble,
and so would I (in this so lyric fishbowl) be, too.
Accordingly, somewhat in the admirable if naïve manner of Margaret Fuller, I
am in a position to announce—while, figuratively speaking,
flinging wide my hyperkinetic arms—I accept the bah humbug,
because in the absence of it
just what do you reckon there would be?
Let's see:
a cyclone fence and a hurricane lamp, I imagine,
a snow plow and a (metaphoric) storm door, and
a mob of determined morons
bent on retailing me a new mower for my lawn
and a Virgin Mary tumbler for my gone-to-seed toothbrush
to besweeten my fated breath on the way out, its exit stroke,
and O
snapshots by someone—Curt Bruce, that's it—to go with the Gita,
and an eon's supply of a new sleep pill they call Sinequan.
Those guys are going to find full-time work waiting for them in hell,
in the marketing section, thinking up names for newborn demons: Infido,
Yoganil, Placidel, Zeroidin, Quaalude, Seamstench, Carbondale, Nadael. . . .
Without perfunctory universes, furthermore, without the classic kosmoi
of that good old bah humbug, there would be
Scrooge waxing in his old age madly good
and Tiny Tim jammed ex machina athwart his own
lucidly ordained destiny of permanent impotence
and, living unlimping forever, to compete
for all I know
in all the Olympics until
Apocalypse's summa karma kingdom comes,
Indian summer to end all Indian summers.
To all those broadcast-frequency upanishads of bah humbug out the rhyme-scheme window, then,
I think I prefer
(for today) the smaller installments of bah humbug
inside,
modest shipments of music yia radio, a cake to bake,
furnage to be figured, Saturday cartoons
permitting television to express its essential self
(i.e., cathode, anode, ditto—preSocratic), this wee
ode to breathe out extemporaneous and (a dog watch) type
on what is after all the only really Royal thing in this house,
antique machine in perfect
working
order
though over thirty years old, the dear enigmatic bah humbug
of Q W E R T Y which
is where I conclude
both integumentally and conceptually,
as
a revival preacher, heaven-for-leather
and leather-for-lung,
ought to stop
in his evangelical tracks
when he looks pentecostally down and,
instead of calling for the
sick lame halt deaf dumb and bald of mind
to be healed through grace by faith and all that,
recognizes in a flash (drummerblam) that Paul
was nothing more than a master of business administration
with minors in Greek and retail merchandising, all to all,
crook to the crook, Jew Jew, whereupon scales
of pastoral care drop clamorous
from his missionary eyes
and he says,
“Choir, you hush. Ushers,
stop right now
on that apostolic dime, you there
with those long-handled collection plates
like long spoons for devil dinners.
You saviors and ye saviees, call a halt
to all this
soling of sawdust up and down the carpet
and
with me
see
O
how unutterably jejune and otiose
be all the uses of this bah and humbug world;
and just
cease.”
Breathe, brethren,
the fact that a scant handful
of added flats will effect
the modulation from bah humbug
to blah ho hum, as
of
an
August Saturday sort of under-overcast
so that the sun (absconditus)
exhibits roughly as much character
as a vacant-lot second base
in the late innings
of a game transacted, trafficked among American boys
obstreperous as the Epworth Poltergeist—
the present is a present (present);
breathe, brethren, where, among
honeysuck, a jalopy
accomplishes the distinguishing dignity
of both botany and machinery,
by and
by subsiding
into some no-thing's-land of
rust (metal) and
rust (blossom-blight),
a unicorn's skeleton prodigious
among the compounded shadows of an apple-colored rose,
all in the changing shade
of a telepathic oak
telling generations of shadow-tailed squirrels
to bury them acorns deep, boys.
yawn. Early birds there where
the lawn got late yestreen mown,
sufficiently scalped for early worms to surface, more hurly
than burly, extra-early, just in time for the Checkerboard farm news
and some enterprising darkling cardinals' prayer breakfast
among dew-dandelions and honeysucklings.
What a lot of bah humbug there is out there in the world today.
Breathing I look uncaring (much) out the window of my room here
giving the old east a look-see:
vagaries, crates, vicissitudes, and crates
red-lettered INDEPENDENT APPLES .
Much geography, little history, some math, zero civics.
A good deal of bah humbug is botany and meteorology
so that about all that I have to want to say here now
is what a fine dandy thing it is that I remain patient
with bah humbug
and as a matter of fact even fond thereof
because if
I should become impatient-with
or contemptuous-of
bah humbug
then (look out), believe you me, the world would be
in big
trouble,
and so would I (in this so lyric fishbowl) be, too.
Accordingly, somewhat in the admirable if naïve manner of Margaret Fuller, I
am in a position to announce—while, figuratively speaking,
flinging wide my hyperkinetic arms—I accept the bah humbug,
because in the absence of it
just what do you reckon there would be?
Let's see:
a cyclone fence and a hurricane lamp, I imagine,
a snow plow and a (metaphoric) storm door, and
a mob of determined morons
bent on retailing me a new mower for my lawn
and a Virgin Mary tumbler for my gone-to-seed toothbrush
to besweeten my fated breath on the way out, its exit stroke,
and O
snapshots by someone—Curt Bruce, that's it—to go with the Gita,
and an eon's supply of a new sleep pill they call Sinequan.
Those guys are going to find full-time work waiting for them in hell,
in the marketing section, thinking up names for newborn demons: Infido,
Yoganil, Placidel, Zeroidin, Quaalude, Seamstench, Carbondale, Nadael. . . .
Without perfunctory universes, furthermore, without the classic kosmoi
of that good old bah humbug, there would be
Scrooge waxing in his old age madly good
and Tiny Tim jammed ex machina athwart his own
lucidly ordained destiny of permanent impotence
and, living unlimping forever, to compete
for all I know
in all the Olympics until
Apocalypse's summa karma kingdom comes,
Indian summer to end all Indian summers.
To all those broadcast-frequency upanishads of bah humbug out the rhyme-scheme window, then,
I think I prefer
(for today) the smaller installments of bah humbug
inside,
modest shipments of music yia radio, a cake to bake,
furnage to be figured, Saturday cartoons
permitting television to express its essential self
(i.e., cathode, anode, ditto—preSocratic), this wee
ode to breathe out extemporaneous and (a dog watch) type
on what is after all the only really Royal thing in this house,
antique machine in perfect
working
order
though over thirty years old, the dear enigmatic bah humbug
of Q W E R T Y which
is where I conclude
both integumentally and conceptually,
as
a revival preacher, heaven-for-leather
and leather-for-lung,
ought to stop
in his evangelical tracks
when he looks pentecostally down and,
instead of calling for the
sick lame halt deaf dumb and bald of mind
to be healed through grace by faith and all that,
recognizes in a flash (drummerblam) that Paul
was nothing more than a master of business administration
with minors in Greek and retail merchandising, all to all,
crook to the crook, Jew Jew, whereupon scales
of pastoral care drop clamorous
from his missionary eyes
and he says,
“Choir, you hush. Ushers,
stop right now
on that apostolic dime, you there
with those long-handled collection plates
like long spoons for devil dinners.
You saviors and ye saviees, call a halt
to all this
soling of sawdust up and down the carpet
and
with me
see
O
how unutterably jejune and otiose
be all the uses of this bah and humbug world;
and just
cease.”
Breathe, brethren,
the fact that a scant handful
of added flats will effect
the modulation from bah humbug
to blah ho hum, as
of
an
August Saturday sort of under-overcast
so that the sun (absconditus)
exhibits roughly as much character
as a vacant-lot second base
in the late innings
of a game transacted, trafficked among American boys
obstreperous as the Epworth Poltergeist—
the present is a present (present);
breathe, brethren, where, among
honeysuck, a jalopy
accomplishes the distinguishing dignity
of both botany and machinery,
by and
by subsiding
into some no-thing's-land of
rust (metal) and
rust (blossom-blight),
a unicorn's skeleton prodigious
among the compounded shadows of an apple-colored rose,
all in the changing shade
of a telepathic oak
telling generations of shadow-tailed squirrels
to bury them acorns deep, boys.
Dawn
yawn. Early birds there where
the lawn got late yestreen mown,
sufficiently scalped for early worms to surface, more hurly
than burly, extra-early, just in time for the Checkerboard farm news
and some enterprising darkling cardinals' prayer breakfast
among dew-dandelions and honeysucklings.
What a lot of bah humbug there is out there in the world today.
Breathing I look uncaring (much) out the window of my room here
giving the old east a look-see:
vagaries, crates, vicissitudes, and crates
red-lettered INDEPENDENT APPLES .
Much geography, little history, some math, zero civics.
A good deal of bah humbug is botany and meteorology
so that about all that I have to want to say here now
is what a fine dandy thing it is that I remain patient
with bah humbug
and as a matter of fact even fond thereof
because if
I should become impatient-with
or contemptuous-of
bah humbug
then (look out), believe you me, the world would be
in big
trouble,
and so would I (in this so lyric fishbowl) be, too.
Accordingly, somewhat in the admirable if naïve manner of Margaret Fuller, I
am in a position to announce—while, figuratively speaking,
flinging wide my hyperkinetic arms—I accept the bah humbug,
because in the absence of it
just what do you reckon there would be?
Let's see:
a cyclone fence and a hurricane lamp, I imagine,
a snow plow and a (metaphoric) storm door, and
a mob of determined morons
bent on retailing me a new mower for my lawn
and a Virgin Mary tumbler for my gone-to-seed toothbrush
to besweeten my fated breath on the way out, its exit stroke,
and O
snapshots by someone—Curt Bruce, that's it—to go with the Gita,
and an eon's supply of a new sleep pill they call Sinequan.
Those guys are going to find full-time work waiting for them in hell,
in the marketing section, thinking up names for newborn demons: Infido,
Yoganil, Placidel, Zeroidin, Quaalude, Seamstench, Carbondale, Nadael. . . .
Without perfunctory universes, furthermore, without the classic kosmoi
of that good old bah humbug, there would be
Scrooge waxing in his old age madly good
and Tiny Tim jammed ex machina athwart his own
lucidly ordained destiny of permanent impotence
and, living unlimping forever, to compete
for all I know
in all the Olympics until
Apocalypse's summa karma kingdom comes,
Indian summer to end all Indian summers.
To all those broadcast-frequency upanishads of bah humbug out the rhyme-scheme window, then,
I think I prefer
(for today) the smaller installments of bah humbug
inside,
modest shipments of music yia radio, a cake to bake,
furnage to be figured, Saturday cartoons
permitting television to express its essential self
(i.e., cathode, anode, ditto—preSocratic), this wee
ode to breathe out extemporaneous and (a dog watch) type
on what is after all the only really Royal thing in this house,
antique machine in perfect
working
order
though over thirty years old, the dear enigmatic bah humbug
of Q W E R T Y which
is where I conclude
both integumentally and conceptually,
as
a revival preacher, heaven-for-leather
and leather-for-lung,
ought to stop
in his evangelical tracks
when he looks pentecostally down and,
instead of calling for the
sick lame halt deaf dumb and bald of mind
to be healed through grace by faith and all that,
recognizes in a flash (drummerblam) that Paul
was nothing more than a master of business administration
with minors in Greek and retail merchandising, all to all,
crook to the crook, Jew Jew, whereupon scales
of pastoral care drop clamorous
from his missionary eyes
and he says,
“Choir, you hush. Ushers,
stop right now
on that apostolic dime, you there
with those long-handled collection plates
like long spoons for devil dinners.
You saviors and ye saviees, call a halt
to all this
soling of sawdust up and down the carpet
and
with me
see
O
how unutterably jejune and otiose
be all the uses of this bah and humbug world;
and just
cease.”
Breathe, brethren,
the fact that a scant handful
of added flats will effect
the modulation from bah humbug
to blah ho hum, as
of
an
August Saturday sort of under-overcast
so that the sun (absconditus)
exhibits roughly as much character
as a vacant-lot second base
in the late innings
of a game transacted, trafficked among American boys
obstreperous as the Epworth Poltergeist—
the present is a present (present);
breathe, brethren, where, among
honeysuck, a jalopy
accomplishes the distinguishing dignity
of both botany and machinery,
by and
by subsiding
into some no-thing's-land of
rust (metal) and
rust (blossom-blight),
a unicorn's skeleton prodigious
among the compounded shadows of an apple-colored rose,
all in the changing shade
of a telepathic oak
telling generations of shadow-tailed squirrels
to bury them acorns deep, boys.
Translation:
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