Poetry for Strangers: Plant

misbegotten logic puzzles

there are five paths to fiji all require a weapon to clear the obstacles the machete can cut through the poplars but not bamboo the scythe slices everything but has a loose handle it’s impossible to move the cannon without a passel of slaves the bayonet is dull the epee beyond useless hand grenades are the best they smell of fire and force but not all the explorers can handle grenades magellans forehand is weak from the lingering wounds of a tiger mauling odysseus is good with the grenades and he can talk to the chimps he’s your best bet

there is no night only a fox in the snow a fennec snuffling quietly through the rattan counting plants contemplating a burrow brimming with pinecones

at the pub called the human condition the patrons comment on the barley mash of dread and fear common to the tippler the seamstress hollers over the shanty what if there is no such thing as the past there is only the present in a brain which calculates memories based on statistical probability nah grumbles the longshoreman were all bubbles in the beery universe of existence effervescent we all gotta pop or fizzle out sooner or later

robots meandered in the emotion shop a counting droid examined a download of high quality anger it had never tried anger before well it had but a generic brand and the droid felt ripped off because all it felt was peeved its compatriots kept telling it how great anger was cleared the wires got the engine pumping they said it made up its mind it would get the good stuff to see what all the fuss was about

the music historian took a vinyl album from the shelf let me play you the story of my life she muttered dropping the needle she unfurled the tale of how bach wrote the mass in b minor before he died i am this music this is me she said encyclopedic but ignored she sang the last word in an ecstatic melisma

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