767 Humor poems

Hard to reach, so you yank your clothes getting at it—the button at your neck, the knotted shoe. You snake your fingers in until your nails possess the patch of skin that’s eating you. And now you’re in the throes of ecstasy, eyes lolling in your skull, as if sensing the first time the joy one takes in being purely animal. It’s so good to have a scratch, though isn’t it a drag living like this, jounced on a high wire of impulses, every wish the same programmed response to another signal passed from cell to cell, amounting in the end to a distraction— if truth be told—from rarer things, thoughts free from the anchor-chain of self? For even the least sweetness, we behave like the old man on the low wall I saw outside the hospital today, who had his hand inside his flannel shirt, scratching at his chest, trancelike, agog, his eyelids fluttering like butterflies in a meadow of snowy Queen Anne’s lace. I never saw him stop. Such root satisfaction is like the dying desert legionnaire’s in films, when he finds, against all odds, a water jug and, lifting it, delights to feel it heavy. The score swells, his eyes relume. He tugs the stopper out, then fills his mouth with sand. Though, worse: we’ve seen the film; we know it’s sand; we gulp it anyway.

yu cant catch me n i cant catch yu we wer cumming together nd th allman brothrs wer playing on yr stereo us on th pillows yr eye cumming into me opn hed no bugs at ths altitude yu sd bfor n say it agen thr is nothing to make up inside ths tent or awning ovr th colors nd my gaze along yr skin yr two eyez bcumming whun eye in yr forhed or a third eye appeering my cum in yu yr cum in me

Griffith Park, Los Angeles Every living heart . . . all over this broad land, will yet swell . . . , when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature. —Abraham Lincoln Because the body now and its organs suggest nothing but those pathologies in which we’ve been instructed, Because the gutter’s black as new blood, a Petri dish of piss and teeth knocked loose at the root, Because our walking here’s scared up pigeons and the air’s thick with their disease, because, therefore, we’re holding Our breath in silent prayer, Good People of Los Angeles, for our immune systems, for hand sanitizer, For swift and decisive return of the sun’s irradiating grace, I can hardly say I even know you much Beyond the turnstile’s slick in the discount supermarket, the sidewalk’s chewing gum and tuberculosis. But I’ve been thinking of you, of your eyes darting behind

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. “Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!” He took his vorpal sword in hand; Long time the manxome foe he sought— So rested he by the Tumtum tree And stood awhile in thought. And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. “And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” He chortled in his joy. ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.

Jack and Jill went up the hill To fetch a pail of water; Jack fell down and broke his crown, and Jill came tumbling after. Up Jack got, and home did trot, As fast as he could caper, To old Dame Dob, who patched his nob With vinegar and brown paper.

Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack jump over The candlestick.

Lyth and lystyn, gentilmen, All that nowe be here; Of Litell Johnn, that was the knighees man, Goode myrth ye shall here. It was upon a mery day That yonge men wolde go shete; Lytell Johnn fet his bowe anone, And sayde he wolde them mete. Thre tymes Litell Johnn shet aboute, And alwey he slet the wande; The proude sherif of Notingham By the markes can stande. The sherif swore a full greate othe: "By hym that dyede on a tre, This man is the best arschére That ever yet sawe I me. "Say me nowe, wight yonge man, What is nowe thy name? In what countre were thou borne, And where is thy wonynge wane?" "In Holdernes, sir, I was borne, I-wys al of my dame; Men cal me Reynolde Grenelef Whan I am at home." "Sey me, Reynolde Grenelefe, Wolde thou dwell with me? And every yere I woll the gyve Twenty marke to thy fee." "I have a maister," sayde Litell Johnn, "A curteys knight is he; May ye leve gete of hym, The better may it be." The sherif gate Litell John Twelve monethes of the knight; Therfore he gave him right anone A gode hors and a wight. Nowe is Litell John the sherifes man, God lende vs well to spede! But alwey thought Lytell John To quyte hym wele his mede. "Nowe so God me helpe," sayde Litell John, "And by my true leutye, I shall be the worst servaunt to hym That ever yet had he." It fell upon a Wednesday The sherif on huntynge was gone, And Litel John lay in his bed, And was foriete at home. Therfore he was fastinge Til it was past the none; "Gode sir stuarde, I pray to the, Gyve me my dynere," saide Litell John. "It is longe for Grenelefe Fastinge thus for to be; Therfor I pray the, sir stuarde, Mi dyner gif me." "Shalt thou never ete ne drynke," saide the stuarde, "Tyll my lorde be come to towne:" "I make myn avowe to God," saide Litell John, "I had lever to crake thy crowne." The boteler was full uncurteys, There he stode on flore; He start to the botery And shet fast the dore. Lytell Johnn gave the boteler suche a tap His backe went nere in two; Though he lived an hundred ier, The wors shuld he go. He sporned the dore with his fote; It went open wel and fyne; And there he made large lyveray, Bothe of ale and of wyne. "Sith ye wol nat dyne," sayde Litell John, "I shall gyve you to drinke; And though ye lyve an hundred wynter, On Lytel Johnn ye shall thinke." Litell John ete, and Litel John drank, The while that he wolde; The sherife had in his kechyn a coke, A stoute man and a bolde. "I make myn avowe to God," saide the coke, "Thou arte a shrewde hynde In ani hous for to dwel, For to aske thus to dyne." And there he lent Litell John Gode strokis thre; "I make myn avowe to God," sayde Lytell John, "These strokis lyked well me. "Thou arte a bolde man and hardy, And so thinketh me; And or I pas fro this place Assayed better shalt thou be." Lytell Johnn drew a ful gode sworde, The coke toke another in hande; They thought no thynge for to fle, But stifly for to stande. There they faught sore togedere Two myle way and well more; Myght neyther other harme done, The mountnaunce of an owre. "I make myn avowe to God," sayde Litell Johnn, "And by my true lewté, Thou art one of the best sworde-men That ever yit sawe I me. "Cowdest thou shote as well in a bowe, To grene wode thou shuldest with me, And two times in the yere thy clothinge Chaunged shulde be; "And every yere of Robyn Hode Twenty merke to thy fe:" "Put up thy swerde," saide the coke, "And felowes woll we be." Thanne he fet to Lytell Johnn The nowmbles of a do, Gode brede, and full gode wyne, They ete and drank theretoo. And when they had dronkyn well, Theyre trouthes togeder they plight That they wolde be with Robyn That ylke same nyght. They dyd them to the tresoure-hows, As fast as they myght gone; The lokkes, that were of full gode stele, They brake them everichone. They toke away the silver vessell, And all that thei might get; Pecis, masars, ne sponis, Wolde thei not forget. Also they toke the gode pens, Thre hundred pounde and more, And did them streyte to Robyn Hode, Under the grene wode hore. "God the save, my dere mayster, And Criste the save and se!" And thanne sayde Robyn to Litel Johnn, Welcome myght thou be. "Also be that fayre yeman Thou bryngest there with the; What tydynges fro Notyngham? Lytill Johnn, tell thou me." "Well the gretith the proude sheryf, And sendeth the here by me His coke and his silver vessell, And thre hundred pounde and thre." "I make myne avowe to God," sayde Robyn, "And to the Trenyté, It was never by his gode wyll This gode is come to me." Lytyll Johnn there hym bethought On a shrewde wyle; Fyve myle in the forest he ran, Hym happed all his wyll. Than he met the proude sheref, Huntynge with houndes and horne; Lytell Johnn coude of curtesye, And knelyd hym beforne. "God the save, my dere mayster, And Criste the save and se!" "Reynolde Grenelefe," sayde the shryef, "Where hast thou nowe be?" "I have be in this forest; A fayre syght can I se; It was one of the fayrest syghtes That ever yet sawe I me. "Yonder I sawe a ryght fayre harte, His coloure is of grene; Seven score of dere upon a herde Be with hym all bydene. "Their tyndes are so sharpe, maister, Of sexty, and well mo, That I durst not shote for drede, Lest they wolde me slo." "I make myn avowe to God," sayde the shyref, "That syght wolde I fayne se:" "Buske you thyderwarde, mi dere mayster, Anone, and wende with me." The sherif rode, and Litell Johnn Of fote he was full smerte, And whane they came before Robyn, "Lo, sir, here is the mayster-herte." Still stode the proude sherief, A sory man was he; "Wo the worthe, Raynolde Grenelefe, Thou hast betrayed nowe me." "I make myn avowe to God," sayde Litell Johnn, "Mayster, ye be to blame; I was mysserved of my dynere Whan I was with you at home." Sone he was to souper sette, And served well with silver white, And whan the sherif sawe his vessell, For sorowe he myght nat ete. "Make glad chere," sayde Robyn Hode, "Sherif, for charité, And for the love of Litill Johnn Thy lyfe I graunt to the." Whan they had souped well, The day was al gone; Robyn commaunded Litell Johnn To drawe of his hosen and his shone; His kirtell and his cote of pie, That was fured well and fine, And toke hym a grene mantel, To lap his body therin. Robyn commaundyd his wight yonge men, Under the grene-wode tree, They shulde lye in that same sute, That the sherif myght them see. All nyght lay the proude sherif In his breche and in his schert; No wonder it was, in grene wode, Though his sydes gan to smerte. "Makeglade chere," sayde Robyn Hode, "Sheref, for charité; For this is our ordre i-wys, Under the grene-wode tree." "This is harder order," sayde the sherief, "Than any ankir or frere; For all the golde in mery Englonde I wolde nat longe dwell her." "All this twelve monthes," sayde Robin, "Thou shalt dwell with me; I shall the teche, proude sherif, An outlawe for to be." "Or I be here another nyght," sayde the sherif, "Robyn, nowe pray I the, Smyte of mijn hede rather to-morowe, And I forgyve it the. "Lat me go," than sayde the sherif. "For saynte charité, And I woll be the beste frende That ever yet had ye." "Thou shalt swere me an othe," sayde Robyn, "On my bright bronde; Shalt thou never awayte me scathe, By water ne by lande. "And if thou fynde any of my men, By nyght or by day, Upon thyn othe thou shalt swere To helpe them that thou may." Nowe hathe the sherif sworne his othe, And home he began to gone; He was as full of grene wode As ever was hepe of stone.

I have known great gold Sorrows: Majestic Griefs shall serve me watchfully Through the slow-pacing morrows: I have knelt hopeless where sea-echoing Dim endless voices cried of suffering Vibrant and far in broken litany: Where white magnolia and tuberose hauntingly Pulsed their regretful sweets along the air-— All things most tragical, most fair, Have still encompassed me . . . I dance where in the screaming market-place The dusty world that watches buys and sells, With painted merriment upon my face, Whirling my bells, Thrusting my sad soul to its mockery. I have known great gold Sorrows . . . Shall they not mock me, these pain-haunted ones, If it shall make them merry, and forget That grief shall rise and set With the unchanging, unforgetting suns Of their relentless morrows?

somebody coming in blackness like a star and the world be a great bush on his head and his eyes be fire in the city and his mouth be true as time he be calling the people brother even in the prison even in the jail i’m just only a baptist preacher somebody bigger than me coming in blackness like a star

In that very first episode the transmission is received on the starship Enterprise that Space Commander Dominguez urgently needs his supplies. Kirk tells Uhura to assure him that the peppers are “prime Mexican reds but he won’t die if he goes a few more days without ’em.” Calm down Mexican. You can wait a few more days to get your chile peppers. In the corner of my eye I see Uhura’s back hand twitch and though I never see him on the screen I image José giving Kirk a soplamoco to the face. But this is the year 2266 and there are Latinos in Outer Space! We never see them, but they’ve survived with their surnames and their desire, deep in the farthest interplanetary reaches, for a little heat to warm the bland food on the starbase at Corinth 4. As it is on earth so it shall be in heaven. Ricardo Montalbán will show up 21 episodes later to play a crazy mutant Indio, superhuman and supersmart who survived two centuries to slap Kirk around and take over his ship.