02 Jun 2016 – Sonnet
Some earnest Hemingway behind the wall
pontificates on everything he knows
and everything he doesn’t. I recall
a time when people crimped their gushing hose,
embarrassed to show off an empty skull,
but that was then – and “then” was long ago,
and since then Death’s bright scythe has come and culled
all those who shut their traps when truth’s unknown.
Words now are weighed, and numbers beat out worth.
One pound of poop outshines an ounce of gold
here in the land of analytic’s birth
where those who long for truth live on the dole.
The winds keep blowing, bringing on the night,
extinguishing our last remaining lights.