This is the tale of the very Who-beast
carved by the Grinch for the Whoville feast.
The creature in question was a Gǝzu
that grazed up high on the grassy puffoo.
She lived with others in a sizable herd
nuzzling her family without any words.
When moving en masse, the ground would thunder
So, standing apart presented a blunder.
Aloof in pink grass, delicious to chew,
one day she was ambushed by hunting Whos.
Thus, blushing grass on the eve of the fête
led to the Who-beast garnished on a plate.
plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead,
bearing a bowl of lather;
a mirror and a razor lay crossed.
A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled
gently behind him: the mild morning air.
The bowl aloft, he intoned:
— Introibo ad altare Dei.
Coarsely he called up | down the dark winding stairs :
— Come up, Kinch ! Come up, you fearful jesuit.
Solemnly forward, mounting the gunrest round,
he blessed gravely thrice:
the tower, surrounding country, awaking mountains.
Catching sight of Stephen Dedalus;
bent, he made rapid crosses in the air,
gurgling his throat, shaking his head.
Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned
arms on the top of the staircase, looked
coldly; the shaking gurgling face, blessing—
equine length, untonsured hair:
Mulligan peeped under the mirror, an instant;
covered the bowl smartly.
— Back to barracks ! sternly.
— For this, O dearly beloved; the genuine
Christine: body and soul and blood and ouns.
Slow music, please. Shut your eyes, gents.
A little trouble about those white corpuscles.
paraphrased from: “Ulysses” — James Joyce
Reality reduces to some equation/s,
maybe with the eloquence of E=MC^2,
or an Eulerian masterpiece.
But Hawking wondered,
“What is it that breathes fire into the equations
and makes a universe for them to describe?.”
One posits a space-time matrix with at least one ego.
Space, time, self: not to be imagined away—
Organisms capture bits of reality
within unique sensory parameters–
different realities. However,
one is tempted to posit some grand,
albeit unobservable, ultimate TRUTH.
What, exactly ?
I side with Kant:
it depends on the box one is in; unless,
one can escape, or
look over the edge thereon:
Maybe, 7 × 6.
No matter the size, power source or brand,
flashlights die swiftly in the hands of Kerri.
No viable theory has explained this
a violation of Newtonian law.
The first flashlight to expire in her youthful,
energy-draining hands does so after clearing
Christmas wrapping; in go the batteries
which promptly cease functioning in five minutes,
the next set, the same; exchanging the gift
the day after changes nothing at all.
Then came the night the car quit on the country lane.
The 1100 lumens find the defective fuse;
then darkness rushes into the car.
The clouds release the rain at dawn
onto the crazy goats that climb
atop the double-storied barns
that are painted red and unused.
The horizontal pupils gaze
the periphery of the glade
to see the sun peep from behind
the parting thunderheads aflash.
The woodland hides the horizon
for the groundlings near jaggéd wire;
but once trip-trapping on tin roofs,
angular eyes mark foreign fields.
The earliest domestic stock
peers across green and wonders:
nannies, billies, and cabritos;
the flock of grandfather ibex.
The kids linear, parallel,
crowd the matriarch to receive
three point five percent butterfat;
without shepherds the livestock stands,
no farmhouse appears near the scene.
These quadrupeds of silly voice,
without the aid of husbandry,
magically subsist apart.
To approach might cause them to faint
or rather to leap from sharp points
in the moment of assembly,
two species curiously face,
play. The fenceposts are split and rotten,
the barbed-wire dulled by corrosion.
The goats know the wall is feeble;
nature will swallow them in weeks.
Agile with balance of ninjas,
goats long to scale mountain walls,
beyond the galvanized barn tops,
ever heavenward, curious.
An escape artist testing pens,
the animal resists herding,
constantly nibbling at restraint,
an inquisitive ruminant.
Hank is shot, solidly !
The hospital is out of the question,
those will be canvassed.
McGregor’s mansion has proven a grave
error—the Tiarna still has the talisman.
The blood drains:
the old man is handy with a pistol.
His belt a tourniquet,
Hank heads to Mandy’s–where else can he go?
Despite her anger,
the healing ritual cast in circle.
Foolhardy bravado: Hank feels useless, helpless.
for him, as the sky begins to darken.
McGregor stands high on the balcony,
laughing savagely: darkness flows into him.
Quietly, his servant pushes him off the edge.
The French horns drone beneath
the sun’s high notes dappled through the oaks.
The orchestral argument enters
after the morning dew
fades in strings and the mockingbird
skitters the grass like a dinosaur.
Bassoons accompany duck
walks comic along the lakeside,
the allegro cadence of water birds
splashing in shimmer,
as glissando waves slide
through octaves about the watershed.