So say the mathematicians
at the University of Illinois.
Equations worked late into the night
over vending machine meals
have proved it.
No matter how complex the politics
or how irregular the borders,
cartographers can open
just four pots of color
(including blue for the sea)
without fear of Mexico and Texas
coming up an identical adjacent pink.
So little suffices to keep us apart.
I think nuns should be required to wear habits always. That way when they are doing something normal, like studying in the library, they can look more amusing.
Once, while getting out of the car at a grocery store I heard a beautiful, chiming laughter nearby. A group of nuns in grey habits were playing volleyball on the grounds of the nursing home next door. It was an autumn evening. The light leaned toward them. Their veils swayed on after the ball left their fists.
Tuning up
Thanking My Parts
Now I lay me down to sleep,
my equilibrium to keep.
I thank the parts that make me me
even when they disagree.
The part that prays,
the part that smokes,
the part that tells the dirty jokes,
the part that eats,
the part that reads,
the part that knows my carnal needs.
All the parts that make me tick
flash by me like a grade-B flick.
And if I die before I wake
I hope I get another take.
The Therapy Rag
First you do some primal screams
kill your mommy in your dreams
Find out who you really hate and
Separate separate separate.
Own your anger, watch the hooks
thrown out by emotion’s crooks.
Do you resent your daughter?
Well you know you oughter.
Doing the therapy rag.
I’m okay and so are you
To your own adult be true
Get rid of guilt, there is no sin, you’re
born to win, born to win, born to win.
Went to the bank took out a loan
and now my integrated self’s my own.
And when she sees me
Oh how she frees me
Doing the therapy
Demand you be fair to me
No one takes care of me
Doing the therapy rag.
Dan
Dan’s a man who looks like a boy
in a Gilligan hat
with penguins marching around the band.
With his eyes closed
he recites poetry he learned by heart
when he was a real boy.
He’s a psychiatrist now,
pear-shaped from sitting on
other people’s problems,
trying to hatch them
into something that can fly.
Small Poems de Terre 