The tourists stop, and stare.
“Mommy is this why we’re here?”
“Yes,” says mommy kindly,
“this my dear is why we’re here.”
Then, they calmly walk away.
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The tourists stop, and stare.
“Mommy is this why we’re here?”
“Yes,” says mommy kindly,
“this my dear is why we’re here.”
Then, they calmly walk away.
If a man’s to charge me now
I don’t think that I could move
Blinded by the sun
The insects stand aloof
Counting blades of grass
No luck of clovers here
Each day’s a hangman’s pity
Each night’s a cross to bear
Remember— oh brothers and sisters
that we are the philosophers of our time.
Us haggard poets of principle and measure,
no matter the plight must rise.
Through tears of understanding
with honest eyes do I
accept thy pleasure’s burden—
to see within our time.
If you told me then
We’d now be coughing blood
You know Doc, I wouldn’t change a thing.
Plumes de Palo Santo
Today carry my worries
Up, up, y away
The doctor lost his patience
One too many times
They would wander like school children
Through the cornfield of his mind
In their single filed silence
Was no ordinary line
Because the doctor and his patients
Walked for miles in simpler times
It’s not exactly the man
that makes for an interesting talk.
But the stories of the man.
And the mythos of the man,
which more often times than not,
are much wiser than the man—
Leaving out his failure
to remind him what he lost.
There is a certain understanding
In the misunderstanding of mankind.
And it’s this misunderstanding
that propels us forward, like a ship
of titanic proportions does not idle
but cuts through waves, and flows
with The Tides of Mankind.
Oh, how the light
Always manages
To see through
The dark.
My insignificance is remarkable.
Perhaps another day maybe,
and this all won’t seem so absurd.