Love Sonnet

She is a masterpiece as excellent

As the cracks in the Mona Lisa.

A work of art as almost beautiful

As the mold on a squirmy armadillo.

Can I compare her to a jubilant hairy lobster?

Or is she equalled by the immaculate weeping watermelons?

She is more lovely than the shattered shards

Of exquisite Grecian pottery,

And more realistic than a crocodile

Who swims all day in tart and tasty lipstick.

The missing pieces

Of the mansion Parthenon,

The breathtaking breaks

In a Yellowstone precipice,

The brown part

Of a rotten bow tie.

She is more to me than all of these,

And now I have a kangaroo nose of my own.

I think that I must be in love,

But it could be indigestion—

Only Lee or a bad burrito

Could make me feel this way.

She smells much better than a bad burrito.

She doesn’t fit at all inside the rigid barbed wire,

But she is a misshaped gratuitous extraneous rupture

In a canvass that forever disrupts the regular flow of purple tea.

So what is the best type of story to tell a toddler with pointy teeth?


That which befalls a nose,

By Benny, brother James,

Would be called a kangaroo.

You’ll understand when you’re older—

The panda bear doesn’t really know

How to chew bamboo.

But for now, you should know

To never accept a loan from a shark,

Somehow lucid advice,

To never reject a respectable lethargic-caterpillar enchilada,

That’s a little bit better, but the best suggestion of all

Is to never ever never fall in love.

Eventually, brother James, Mom and Dad

Will actually explain the extra insects and the birds to you,

But take my word that love is like a loopy fruit loop.

When I hold his hand

I am a towering pizza mountain of insomnia

That runs over the resplendent ocean

In brilliant bays of fiery luminescence.

I have a thousand evanescent peanut butter flies

Shooting out of all my incandescent beaming eyes,

And my golden finger nails are as shiny as the outer space.

Do all dogs really know how to play the virtuosic ukulele?

I noticed the man without a friendly fellow go by in his rowboat,

And I don’t care any more about my crocodile.

I’m sorry, brother James—

I can’t explain it.




Excuse me madam—I really hate to trouble you like this

But, you see, my car ran out of gas,

And I was wondering if maybe you could spare me,

An extra, broken-legged crocodile, with long ears…

I used to have short ears.




Today he looked at me

Through his crooked glasses frame

And when he said, “hi, Lee”

I almost forgot my eggplant-potato salad.

I think he knows about my nose,

Let’s hope he passes over it.

“There are in this world stranger things,”

Says a stranger, “than to have a kangaroo nose,”

But if Benny knew I think he’d mind

That deep inside my rigid make up case

Contained below the cosmic cosmetics

And other contents of every kind and sort,

There is an extra crocodile with long ears.

His leg is broken and he cannot swim

To peek his head above the liquid lipstick.

But even if his leg were healed,

I think his ears would still look funny.

Everything else is in order—

Except that I forgot again to tip the door man…

With the golden token…

And the yellow bow tie.



Beautiful Laugh

She didn’t laugh that loudly,

But I saw her kangaroo nose.

It was disintegrating in the ashes

Of a decomposing image.

A cold image of the world

That didn’t have extra room

To hold a pointless carnival

Or an amusing circus.

An image of rigid boxes

That were dusted every day

With scratchy wire brooms

To keep away the tangled cobwebs

And creative long-winded spiders with pinstriped pants.

A rotten, silken image of nothing.

But to wipe off the snot

Of a kangaroo nose with it

Is a beautiful thing,

To laugh out clearly the truth

Like hilarious chocolate milk

That overflows propriety indecorously

Is a disgusting and superfluous—necessity.

I like boogers better

Than false impressions,

And I don’t own a volleyball—

Because the man with the yellow bow tie

Doesn’t have his own volleyball—

Yesterday he went to the mall…

By himself.



Paroxysm of Poetry: The Man with the Yellow Bow Tie

Dear Readers,

It’s time for another Paroxysm of Poetry.  That is, a week or so of daily poetic postings that pour out of my pen in perhaps a kind of paroxysmal pandemonium.  This set of poetry is called The Man with the Yellow Bow Tie.  It is written in a Surrealist style that is intended to be playful, entertaining, and a little bit ludicrous.  I hope these will be a lot of fun for everyone to read, but always remember that if you don’t enjoy them, you are free to close your internet browser at any time.  I apologise in advance for my bizarre taste in aesthetics; you will have to forgive a well-meaning, bow-tie-wearing poetaster like myself.

Your servant,


On the Interpretive and Critical Issues of Eggs

Dear Ernest,

These days, man seems to inhabit two worlds.  In one, his choice of literature is restricted only by what he can find on the shelf, but in the other, he finds that the greatest criticism for his favourite authors and philosophers is that they are too difficult to read.  In one, he is limited only by the capacity of his imagination and his intellect, but in the other, he is confined by every pragmatic constraint, from the paucity of time to the stringent demands of utility.  Man on his own is free to contemplate the human condition, to spend however long he chooses considering the nature of the Absolute Truth, but as soon as he leaves the locus amoenus of his study, as soon as he enters into what most of us call ‘the real world’, he realises that all these fancies of his, all these suppositions that he may have dreamed up and wrought to withstand the most brutal kind of intellectual scrutiny—all these are attacked in the real world not for possessing any kind of logical fallacy but merely for being too abstract and metaphysical.  Anyone who spends an hour or so reading and thinking in a private study is likely to feel afterward that the time would have been better spent figuring out what to eat for dinner or how to make more money or what kind of clothes to wear tomorrow—these after all are the sort of decisions that have actual bearing on real life.

Ernest, it is strange that these two worlds are so dissociated from one another.  One would expect them to coincide.  To illustrate this, let us imagine a conversation between two people who each live in a different world respectively.  There is a realistically hefty woman living in the real world, and she is married to a phantasmagorically emaciated man living in the other world.

Woman: We’re out of eggs.

Man: It is my categorical Duty to sustain you.

Woman: What does that mean?

Man: I’ll go get eggs.

Now, our woman might think the emaciated man is a little strange, but at the end of the day, there is no real disagreement between them.  Somehow or other, they can each grok what the other is thinking, since ultimately, they both want eggs.  The only difference is how they get to the eggs.  The woman wants eggs so that she can use them, and the man wants eggs so that he can be the sort of person who gets eggs.

When these two do disagree about something, however, that discrepancy is greatly inflamed by the difference in their worlds.

Woman: We’re out of eggs.

Man: Mankind is not entitled to luxury.

Woman: What does that mean?

Man: Let’s see what kind of people we might become if we went without eggs for a little while.  Perhaps we’d be better for it.

Woman: But I need eggs now!  You lazy, phantasmagorically emaciated man!

Clearly this will not end well.  One or each of them is wrong, but it’s almost certain that they’ll never figure out how or why.  In the real world, the man will never have enough time to explain his esoteric reasoning fully.  If he were able to do so, perhaps the woman could point out the precise matter about which she disagrees with him.  On the other hand, the woman will never be fully able to express her passionate feelings about eggs.  If she could, perhaps the man could demonstrate where his own feelings differ.  All this would be much simpler if they both looked at eggs through the same lens.

Your servant,


P.S. I challenge you to use the word ‘apotheosis’ in your next letter.


Categorical evidence that Ernest is an absurdly silly man.

Rivulet of Reason

My tres belle Ernest,

I apologize for my late response — as you may not know I was away at a retreat with fellow academics doing research on various studies – a camp-on-ologies, if you will. I am aghast I may not have tolled you where I would be. Lest I be too hard on myself, does it have any ring of remembrance to it? Either way, you should like to know that it was a good camp, though plenty challenging. I am thinking there would be a specific curve as to the performance of the attendees – it is escaping me, though. At one point a notable gentleman was caught cheating on a performance; I thought a rebellion might ensue. I think the addition of a word challenge will be Big Benefit in terms of the quality of our writing.

A more sincere apology for the above. I know…

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