We are the robots.
We don’t need no stinking badges.
We sacrificed the sex.
When we moved here we had to have a new plug put onto the dryer.
And we mean everything.
Nevertheless, we can see the beginning of an era of enlightenment for slime molds.
To those about to rock, we salute you.
We gotta talk up big boy.
We will all be dead in minutes.
We are never so defenseless against suffering as when we love.
We can’t be sure of anything.
If we had some ham, we could have ham and eggs for breakfast, if we had some eggs.
We are done with words.
Shooting at Life from a Passing Car
It’s all over
But the slashing of tires
The vacant chuckle
Of shivering December blackout nights
Echoing its own self interest
The hisses are funny
On a day folding laundry
Coming the way they do from you folks
Sleeping in the peanut gallery
Iron wheels on the move
Over green land
We are too much of a tree moving at night
Other things bang against themselves
In order to make music
To make water a sound
You must hum the pink object