Springtime is singtime
but
Seedtime is weedtime

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Why happens when we
bump against a mechanical dustbin
the one that contains everything we’ve
ever thrown out as useless
The instructions read like
they were assembled by an electorate
maddened against a sinister they
can’t grasp
Before this
the domestic likelihood of finding a
lasting mate
A machine
Safe brains miss the obsolete
even as they
practice an Occam’s of pragmatic
worth
The old rockets into the trash
another prospective razor held against it
the simplest is the best
Beneath whatever abstract speculations
what we discard
lies unwelcome
its service forgotten
entombment
in earth
its only
fate

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Lone parking lot beer
Unlike those who cut it loose
It’s never been drunk

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This moment isn’t worth
The wistfulness it brings
So alone at this juncture
Trudging among skeletons
From the intolerant earth
The machinery mutated
Beyond all recognition
In a space betwixt realities
Who will tend to our tombstones
Never acknowledge the damage
Someone who grossly overstates
Their own worth has caused
A view you paid dearly for
The catharsis of melancholy sadness

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“Tell me about it,” I said. “Describe what you’re feeling.”

Neltoq inclined his head. “It is like…” He trailed off, and for a moment there was just the sound of his reedy breathing.

“Go on,” I said gently.

“Imagine a song you have never heard, but one which you nevertheless know by heart,” said Neltoq. “You hear it distantly, as if borne on a summer breeze. As much as you desire to hear it, you hold back out of fear.”

I could only nod my head.

“How else might I describe it…?” Neltoq closed two of his eyes to re-moisturize them. “Perhaps…you see an old lover from a short distance away. You want to cry out to her, but at the same time you dare not. It is too dangerous. There is too much pain. Instead, you feel the embers of what was, what could have been, stirring deep within you.”

“I didn’t know you were a poet, Neltoq,” I said.

“It is an avocation I hve been studying,” he said. “It is a tradition among the Ultoq to compose a final testament before the metamorphosis. I have long thought that I would prefer for mine to be a poem. My scientific work will speak for itself, but it contains none of my soul.”

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Snails were slow, the wise ones say
And ill prepared to live
Their city burned one sad day
The wise ones unprepared
Then they went their separate ways
Snails seem better lived today

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They say that when
You pick your nose
You have a mortal sin

Old Egypt has
A different take
With a small heated pin

Needle goes up
Your nose with ease
And thus they pick your brain

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