wjsullivan.net

Overloading the Machine

Tender

A farce, which was this hemophiliac doorbell
stopped in its tracks, that is their blessed glistening
meanness, like tumblers to a toddler

a ritual was something else
nothing, no circumlocution, no zeronones
a one pain above or a waiting design

its a range, it introduced the l to the l
and made its point, systematically
within a chart there is a folder

inside all this and unusual
an echo the ear can't wrap, won't
cling, not unavailable in not selling

not absent and not adorned
the three-legged stool, not unheard
but ill-advised, and often.

The true Southern watermelon is a boon apart, and not to be mentioned with commoner things. It is chief of the world's luxuries, king by the grace of God over all the fruits of the earth. When one has tasted it, he knows what the angels eat. It was not a Southern watermelon that Eve took; we know it because she repented.

-- Mark Twain, "Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar"