The day after the Feast Day of San Rocco, or Saint Roche as he is known in France.
It is, I believe, also the day after the Feast Day of the father of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Saint Joachim.
On looking at Catholic sites on-line, I do not see St. Joachim listed. Perhaps they have demoted him.
Or, perhaps they have found a scandal. Scandalum magnum! I can just see St. Elizabeth throwing a amphora at his bald pate!
St. Joachim, ora pro nobis, stultis et loquacibus.
Anyway, here's the drill:
(1) no eats
(2) 1 poem
until the infamy called the Unpleasantness in Mesopotamia is ended.
I estimate that to be 200 poems and minus 500,000 calories away...at a minimum.
My Cell Number Is...
If I had a cell phone, I would try to learn
to talk on it and walk across a busy street;
I would jump into my antique car
and turn it on and dial a recording
-if I had no friends-
and talkkk at allll the rrright spots
while driving over the potssssholes
that are in my mondo condo.
If I had a cell phone, I would hold it close
and have eargasm with it
and flip that codpiece up that
covers the lcd screen where I text
and push it in my head
and close my eyes in bliss like the
monorail riders in Fahrenheit 451
who ride in hot, hot solitud-i-nie!!
Sometimes I think that God
is out to get me, for when I leave
my driveway, a big, black SUV looms up
and there's a lady driving, talking
on a cell phone, and
she don't see me!
If my cell phone were to ring,
it'd be her, death angel!
People walk with Borg implants
or so I thought,
in their heads...and then they speak
so I answer "Oh, I'm fine. How're ya'll?"
But they ignore me and I puzzle...
but they're on their phones.
And what I thought cyborg
was a cochlear hands-free.
So since I could not stop long enough
fer Tech, it kindly stopped fer me.
It ran me over with its love
and the black lady's SUV.
It is, I believe, also the day after the Feast Day of the father of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Saint Joachim.
On looking at Catholic sites on-line, I do not see St. Joachim listed. Perhaps they have demoted him.
Or, perhaps they have found a scandal. Scandalum magnum! I can just see St. Elizabeth throwing a amphora at his bald pate!
St. Joachim, ora pro nobis, stultis et loquacibus.
Anyway, here's the drill:
(1) no eats
(2) 1 poem
until the infamy called the Unpleasantness in Mesopotamia is ended.
I estimate that to be 200 poems and minus 500,000 calories away...at a minimum.
My Cell Number Is...
If I had a cell phone, I would try to learn
to talk on it and walk across a busy street;
I would jump into my antique car
and turn it on and dial a recording
-if I had no friends-
and talkkk at allll the rrright spots
while driving over the potssssholes
that are in my mondo condo.
If I had a cell phone, I would hold it close
and have eargasm with it
and flip that codpiece up that
covers the lcd screen where I text
and push it in my head
and close my eyes in bliss like the
monorail riders in Fahrenheit 451
who ride in hot, hot solitud-i-nie!!
Sometimes I think that God
is out to get me, for when I leave
my driveway, a big, black SUV looms up
and there's a lady driving, talking
on a cell phone, and
she don't see me!
If my cell phone were to ring,
it'd be her, death angel!
People walk with Borg implants
or so I thought,
in their heads...and then they speak
so I answer "Oh, I'm fine. How're ya'll?"
But they ignore me and I puzzle...
but they're on their phones.
And what I thought cyborg
was a cochlear hands-free.
So since I could not stop long enough
fer Tech, it kindly stopped fer me.
It ran me over with its love
and the black lady's SUV.
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