7Gates: That You Might ‘Know Thyself’
Skeptical of Skepticism
No sweet sweat yet
glistens gloomily in the hardly
haired pores on the stiff
upper lip of Tarragon
Tractitus, the praxus prodder,
for verily his hiatus
is bovinely inspired
per the duration of his languidation
around trepidation square,
where, no question,
quality is a flow not a push
around the beastly burning bush,
a fine fettered fix wherein
a species of needle
lacks a point.
You say come and I say go.
You say swish and I say glow.
On the brink of offing
our need to know,
thistle down ponies brightly
on a sliver of moon.
So bait your slugfest
with expendable breath,
buddy, mince my words,
any old slob can
predicate an apocalypse
but only a freeze-dried
slobbering saint
can stir it
without a spoon.
Contact the author via email to: sidney.hoover@comcast.net
Copyright © 2004 Sidney Dutton Hoover
Last updated: February 15, 2006