Tennessee zen!
Nas-kar-ma.
We spin our tires
Only to find
That what goes
Around
Comes around.

1
All the little beasties
Writing to-and-fro
Playing with symbologies
Like veggies in a row
Thinking their importantcy
Of self is Oh! so So!
Building meals with condiments
(but where'd the sandwich go?)


#2
Most things do not want to rhyme.
Take, for example, Space, and Time.
They do not have a common syntax,
Only a parallax entrusted
To one another
Like home-fries at the Waffle House,
Smothered and splattered and covered... Encrusted.

Wind em and wrap em
come on me brithers
Knop on their withers
An lay the beast down.

Fetch em an catch em
Carf all their hoolin'
Mother needs meat on
The table by dawn.

See the faded fabric, there?
The stitching pulled, the tattered thread?
The fabric of my heart is gone;
(I wore it Loud and Ostentate!)

Now, forlorn, I am without
Its quilted beat, that woven flag,
That banner of my hopeful youth;
(my sleeve is raw;  the wound runs deep.)

Shall I ever find a loom
To weave another, just as loud?
Or suffer hence a make-do patch?
(some homespun thing, with burlap beat?)

Should I fashion on my own
A stronger, more defensive badge,
Breaking needles as I sew?
(A heart of Tin that does not bleed!)

Wait!  What's this?  O! Say it's true!
I grieve my loss too soon, it seems,
Upon this flight of errant heart.
(I wake from imprisoned dream!)

There's a seamstress caught my eye,
With linen pure, and gilded string.
She adds to this new heart some wings;
(my heart is prone to flight, it seems.)