Meet me at the bus stop, Jesus. And if you have anything for me to add to my luggage, make it your own home brew.
I don’t want to consume that ready-made any more, though I’ll keep that fact to myself a little longer.
Just like depression, most people don’t want to know when you’re losing your religion.
Borrowed that story about you for so many years, and it wasn’t even yours. Second hand from some other emperor, maybe a tribal chieftain too.
Mistranslated, double switched meanings (literally!). Not your fault, as usual.
It’s true the more you learn, the less you can admit to knowing.
Then why don’t learned people teach less and less, instead of more and more?
Hoping to tie things up for the next generation, fix a temporary stake, to slow the backsliding they felt in their times of midlife crisis
Dark and light, equinox and blazing glory, peach and good will (now to all genders).
I always knew about the glory.
But no need to light up a tree or ring them bells for that–just look out the window at those chickadees,
And that’s on the darkest day of the year, all in shades of gray,
Tiny beetles under delicately curling bark, pupae asleep in the mud, lilies already pushing up points of green.
All those selfish gene propagation machines can’t hide the glory.
Still, is it to be avians and asteriods only on the tree, felted and embroidered, from now on?
Are we keeping the manger and decorated camels for old time’s sake?
Must have the lights, at the very least–starved for light I am, these days.
And of course, one must have the balls.