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The following elucidated
     conjecture actually can
(reed best) be taken with a grain
     of salt, and no ban
nah nah split 'ope ya 'ere me
     cloud and lear, cuz (Oh my...
heavens to Betsy), ennui  
     got pulled by Evan -

Jewel Lean, who handed this long fellow
     (wads worth to you)
     speculation with fan
see prestidigitation legerdemain - tan
ta mount to cheap tricks
     re: out of thin air
     by this half
     fast hue man,
Hill Billy ***** Wonka Nilly,

     who blithely doth asseverate
apothegm (poem title) equally applicable
     Century21 today Aswan
**** maxim initially
     bespoke, when collective
     primates begat enfant terrible
     foo fighting predetermining anon
     metastasizing debacle Yeti

     bedeviling civilization
     a bajillion years in the future with
     Matthew Scott Harris deadpan
words worth less his way
     before even an odd iota
     of dire straight sultan
of swing didst merely span
spottily scattered amidst

     pristine Earth, where
     unchanging arboreal
beastie boys to oman,
and flock of sea gulls
     continuity elapsed โ€“ Ivan
hunch, albeit un
     recorded disc contented sow
     sow hogtied pan

dum mo' nee ham, or
     blessed historical events,
     kept (stay'n) alive,
     courtesy"FAKE" Trump
     petting Dapper Dan,
where he knit pattern,
     qua oral tradition, sans clan
destine scattered hot pockets

     of sparse **** sapiens,
     i.e. humanity LESS preponderant,
     primary, and/or prolific,
     where superstitions parlayed
     (voodoo with no Fran Schwa),
     and whirling dervishes fed elan,
which earliest recorded (doctored,
     digitized, and demented

     oh yea), not
     tomb mitt to dimly mentioned
     asper "time and tide
     wait for no man"
     purportedly by one
     Saint Marher, circa:
     1225 anno domini.
Tom Atkins Feb 2021
Sun cuts through the slats of the fences,
light and shadow on the sand.

The ocean is calm today.
Soft waves wash against the shore.

A serenade. A lullaby.
A hymn of thanksgiving.

It is enough to sit here. To feel the sun.
Time disappears. You disappear in the landscape.

You have come to understand what you are
and a few of the whys. It is enough.

You are content to know less, feel more.
Know less, experience more

without the luggage of a life lived spottily, strangely,
too often lacking answers.

In the distance, gulls cry out.
In the distance, clouds nudge the horizon.

Wind ruffles your hair. You smell the salt.
And you wonder at how long it took you

to lose yourself. To find yourself.
To understand the meaning of enough.
About this poem.

Less has made me more. ****** if I understand it, but itโ€™s true.

Tom
2 lesbians who didn't know the meaning of "Stop it because it's against the law!" stumbled down the dusty road hand-in-hand to meet Jesus because they were dead tired. "There He is!" Martha exclaimed. "I don't see Him!" Jan responded. Tragically later, Jan's baby (conceived by secret lesbian impregnation methods) would grow up to look more like Hillary Clinton than was normal for a child who wasn't exposed to major radioactive impurities. "I'm tired and my lesbian parts are killing me," Martha stated like she was the queen of forever. "Soon we'll be at Motel 6 enjoying the treasures of our lifestyle," Jan whispered while her chafed thighs bled spottily like 6 employees of Dairy Queen in a car wreck.

— The End —