Happy

I feel sleepy,

but I got six hours.
I’m fairly happy.

Trying to gauge me—
test my powers—
but I feel sleepy.

And not looking
to paint the flowers—
pretty happy

about me.
I’d take a shower,
but a bath’s more sleepy.

OK, I’ll make it snappy
and start the snow blower.
I’m a happy

homeowner—how trippy
that my life’s nearly over!
I feel sleepy,
but I’ll die happy!

Enlightenment

Heaven: I don’t want to go there unless everyone else can go there too.

If I attained enlightenment,
would I still
suffer enjoyment?

If my long employment,
greasing the till,
gained enlightenment,

would disappointment
linger, supposing I might feel
regret for some enjoyment

I was supposedly done with—
scent I could no longer smell
in my dreamless enlightenment—

impossible fulfillment
of the life dreamt the day I fell
in love with YOUR enbrightenment.

Can enlightenment
turn a mill
of lost enjoyment?

Enjoyment IS suffering,
a grinding-wheel;
but we trade enlightenment

for more sustained enjoyment
(fiddling a reel
of loving endearment),
suffering so that ALL may attain enlightenment.

Only the Dance (Warm Face, Warm Hands, Warm Feet)

I’m stepping out lively

on this ripe occasion.
Aren’t I lovely?

Sin is behovely
(I have to mention
as I step out lively).

But no depravity
or vile intention—
keeping it lovely.

Nor expecting an unduly
harsh evaluation
of my step-so-lively

as I click my ruby
slippers for ascension.
Aren’t they lovely?

You step with me—
my spur to pay attention
to the beat, as we step lively.
Aren’t we lovely?

Jack Sprat's Wife

Thinking of my life as a slice of time,

just a fat or skinny piece of apple pie.—
Compared to the extent of time, it’s almost infinitely skinny!

So, I’m in my lifeboat on the sea of time—
my own nifty lifeboat—but I don’t know why
it was assigned to me, my little slice of time.

But a sea has no sequence, life
a mere strait shoring gulfs on either side,
compared to time's blank extent, almost infinitely skinny!

If I fall out of my lifeboat, I’ll drown in the time
it takes to count to sixty-five
or so—who’ll be assigned my lifeboat then?—

poor lifeboat, built of jetsum
salvaged from an old mother-ship lost in the tide
after it had left its skinny

track, eccentric, on the broad page of time.
The book with my lost page survives.
Thinking of my life as a slice of time
that, compared to time’s extent, IS infinitely skinny!

Strange

OK, so does the Trinity have to change?

What’s the idea of this Spirit stuff?
It’s a strange

unity—the Babe in the man-
ger makes three, enough
to stand apart and never change.

The Babe became the Son, sort of a Stooge
of God the Father (Who’s deaf);
but Jesus performed strange

miracles, even arranged
for the dead to come back in the buff—
in their bodies, that is—exchanged

for eternal souls?—no way! When we plunge
into the river of life-in-death,
strange

vibrations seize our limbs, God rearrang-
ing our molecules until we’re fully stuffed
with love that, like the Trinity, can’t change.
Strange!

Fox in Sox, Sir

The Clock pulse is Enable for the Flip Flops to synchronize the gates output at a particular Time. Only When clock is high [ active High ] OR Low [ Active Low ] as per types of Gates used, the output will occur at appropriate times. A Flip-flop is a clock-controlled memory device.

The toys are all out of the box,
but they aren’t all broken yet.
Gotta be smart like a fox!

I’m putting on my carpe diem socks
How corny can I get,
taking all my toys out of the box;

still wanting to identify my rocks
and see if my flip flops can be synchronized. Let’s
try to be smart like a fox

and hide in the hollyhocks,
not letting ourselves be captured and kept as a pet—
just one of the chews in the box

of chocolates, let’s say—ducks
on the millpond when you want to whet
your teeth on something greasy, Mr. Fox!—

tired of kicking against the pricks.
How wet can a pet get wet
when the toys are all out of the box?
Gotta be smart like a fox!

You Know What

So now what am I going to do instead of you know what?

I’ve checked my email, updated my website.
I guess I’d better shit or get off the pot.

All those pictures in my mind are hot—
no reason to feel faint or get uptight,
but what am I going to do now instead of you know what?

Well, I could go and measure my grave plot,
where I’ll be lying when I’ve given up the fight,
after I've shat or gotten off the pot.

But the coffin’s a bad hotel—I’m not
in any damn hurry to have died,
but in the meantime what am I going to do instead of that?

Well, I just might buy a brand new hat,
with glitter, a blue feather on the side,
to wear as I sit upon my porcelain pot.

Knowing folks might think that I’m kind of a bat,
but all these box-car trains are free to ride,
so I’m hopping on board of a steel you know what—
the only way to shit AND get off the pot.