Famous Last Words: The Democratic Candidate

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet ’t is early morn:

Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle-horn.

—Tennyson, “Locksley Hall” (1835)

They left them there—but never called them, early or late, upon the morn;

for them no trumpet-sounding summoned,

who’d slickly offered to conform.

They could have spun spondaic meter,

but lacked the needed scanning time,

and, finally, could not be bothered,

as long as things could kinda rhyme.

’T was the world, the funny old one they had cherished in their youth,

long, long ago—before they learned the poxy truth:

You can’t win if short of money—a stash of cash is present proof!

The fix is in! It's senseless holding your own stupid self aloof!

Tuesday, April 8, 2025

The Bookie’s Turf

Zeal, Spirit, Hope, and Confidence

Are said to constitute “morale,”

But I, though pleading self-defense,

Find hard to see how, if so, hence

Innocence romps in that locale

(Turf of the Bookie, claims Pascal)

Who on my own recognizance

Should forfeit there, in consequence,

Wit, Doubt, and graceful Diffidence

Et al.—confabulation’s weathered fence.

Thursday, April 3, 2025

The Minimalist

"Fate thrives on figures and intricate designs. Its difficulty lies in its complexity. But life is difficult by reason of its simplicity."—Rilke

I sought to simplify my ways,

Suppress wants to a minimum,

And lightly live here, day by day,

Preparing for the end to come

—a pussy cat’s good company!

How best, then, to contrive this much,

When esurient ego seeks to be,

Desiring praise, the tribal touch!

A scrap of credit spirit craves

Before s/he sinks beneath the waves.

Living lightly upon the earth,

Pursued no pointless human task,

Some recognition of one’s worth

Is surely not too much to ask!

Epigraph: Rainer Maria Rilke, The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge, translated by Edward Snow (Norton, 2023), 160

Thursday, April 10, 2025