Call Me Paranoid, But I’d Rather Trip Than Risk It…

Or

I’ve Heard It’s Good Luck

I’ve heard the birds are herding our words
Hoarding our nouns and hiding our verbs
Amassing an arsenal of arguments
In nests throughout the ‘burbs
To pepper us with platitudes
And bombard us with blurbs
Call it pigeon propaganda
(So said the little bird)
So I’m cautious of the crow
I see cawing on the curb
And I’m wary of the wren
As he’s easy to disturb
For avian avengers
Are hiding in the herbs
And today’s topiary twitters
Tomorrow may be turds

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Published in: on July 23, 2010 at 4:43 pm  Leave a Comment  
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A Butterfly, Flapping Its Wings…

There’s a thought in my head that won’t be articulated.  It runs and hides from my attempts to encompass it with words.  It is shy.  It has something to do with butterflies, flapping their wings and creating storms.  It has something to do with layered simplicity becoming complexity.  It has something to do with potential, with the dynamic forces of change, with a thing never quite being what it is, but what it could be, based on what it was, based on what it wasn’t.  It has something to do with opposites, with apparent contradictions being complimentary.  It has something to do with cause and effect.  It has something to do with fate, serendipity, destiny, synchronicity, karma, dumb luck, blind chance.

It has something to do with me.

It has something to do with the man I was.

It has something to do with the man I will be.

It has nothing to do with anything.

It has everything to do with nothing.

It escapes me.