Here is the third in the trilogy of memoirs after “Shiny Bits” and “Looking from Both Sides.”
“Live in the moment,” they say,
But the moments keep moving away
Like the shadow of the trees
Rustling in a breeze
As the sun palls,
And darkness falls.
No Euclid can define
A single point of time.
In keeping with my scatological theme, here is another silly poem:
Donald Trump Sits for his Official Portrait
The portrait sitter
Sits on his sphincter,
Trying to hold it in.
Outside, the lightening flashes
But nobody hears
The thunder roar under his skin.
Here’s a silly little poem:
The Booger and the Turd
The Booger once said to the Turd:
“You’re disgusting in ways that I’m not.”
To which Turd did retort:
“I’ve heard people say,
‘That’s really good shit’,
But never ‘that’s really nice snot’.”
Here is a new short story. The story itself is only 7 1/2–pages long, but it is prefaced by an 11 1/2–page-long section on the history of suicides, in which I go off on some screeds about Job and Hamlet that I used to make back when I taught those works for two dozen years at BU, The Key School, and at River Valley Community College.