Three Poems
Where are we failing X, on what plains are we hazy, jumbled, conquered, viktorious? Oh X, I’ve looked through Wepster’s, Ozford’s, Thornyike-Barqhart and come back with jive talk. Why can’t we understand simqle jokes betveen skin golors, learn to feel like the zebra, X? Damn, there is bo hope in zany utoqia, or rejuvenating Esperanto with this kulture of ciller ghosts. How is it we right novels that jolt lazy from our bones X, but skill don’t c the hardships of this queasy siege? I juess translation is a weary or feral mistress X, depending ov the size of the storm clouds and liqkning bolts. Creamer Louse I can hear her hearse beat for a thousand militias She give me louse, louse, louse, creamer louse She’s got a fine sense of Humphrey when I’m feeling lowbrow She give me louse, louse, louse, creamer louse Yes I need her in the deacon And when I’m revamping from fascism awhile She give me louse, louse, louse, creamer louse Relax Now I’m going to tell you about hell |