Fantasy

A theory of nonsense

Is there a ForeverWho can scope the great mindA yolk in an eggThen what is beyond the eggMonkeys and typewritersad infinitumThink your deep thoughtsand they surely will write ‘emStories of ourswill be amber-ingrainedand lain among flowersall freshened with rain

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a working man

Old Man. He come every day at twilight time. I hears the bony drum, cicada’s hum. He wear raggedy clothes, canvas cap, yellowy beard. And his work he does. Cranks that gear handle round and round. Powers up the tiny lights. Pinpoints in the pinwheel spiralled sky of night.

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