Poems and/or Drawings of Maps.
220513
I’m going back to Cali
I’m going back, but I’m not going home
I’m gonna see mom, dad, Tom and Jerome
I’m gonna go back to where I’m the Pope
I’m gonna eat tacos and smoke some dope
I’m not going home, but I’m going back
I’m gonna see friends like a maniac
I’m gonna play games and walk in the sun
And then I’ll go home when all of that’s done
210421
The road to anywhere
Before you end up on a gurney
Make sure you plan a jaunty journey
Look at the map, pick a direction
It does not have to meet perfection
If flawless becomes your fixation
You’ll never find your destination
The purpose of this merry mission
To have fun on your expedition
So pick a route and start your roaming
To Wexford, Wicklow or Wyoming
To go somewhere beats going nowhere
Appreciate just how you got there
201106
Rock’n Me
It’s still a tense nail biter
But things are looking brighter
My expectations widen
Of victory for Biden
This electoral thriller
In honor of Steve Miller
201104
The shithole states
Democracy may not be dead
But most of US still is red
Don’t ask me why it’s not more blue
This whole election stinks of poo
200819
Ellen’s wet ass precipitation
Red, orange, yellow
Warnings all over the place
I hope Cork can float
190607
It’s possible in my head
I tried to drive the motorway
But clearly I should stay away
I did my best but still had fear
Of flying off this big blue sphere
180629
#Fireland
I can’t believe it’s so damn hot
A good day to be on a yacht
This island cannot take this heat
It’s used to burning gas and peat
There’s no AC, and I’ve no fan
I’m one big, sweaty, melted man
There’s no more water from the sink
I guess I’ll go back on the drink
0331
Póg mo thóin sassenach
Easter, 1916
By William Butler Yeats
I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
That woman’s days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our wingèd horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road,
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone’s in the midst of all.
Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven’s part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse—
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
