The meaning of life

We live so that graveyards
May be full of forgotten worries
We strive so that our hopes and fears
Will lie with us as our essence
Bleeds into the indifferent clay
The bits and pieces of our living
Drift out into the vagrant air
To be reborn in the yet unguessed
Strivings of the yet unknown
Leaving some vague imprint
On the great entropic vastness


And now, a bit of silliness…

Conversation is an exchange of concepts.
Conversion is a change of concept.
Conversely, convergence
Is a merge of concepts,
Except the perception of the
Conception is deceptively dubious.
Would it be convenient to
Convene a convention to
Consider the context of the

On cabbages

I dreamt Barriss Mills was Ogden Nash…

Oh, so round and hard to please
Rather like enormous peas
Big leathery living flaps
Curled about like sailors’ caps

Neither dry nor fully wet,
And green, so very green, and yet,
Despite the sheerness of their mass
Who knew inside was so much gas?

Free will

What parts of me lie buried in unstoned ground
Dreams and fears alike leached out
Into the indifferent clay?

What parts of what I am pleased to call
My own invention come down
Through the ancient crossfire of nature and nurture
To the ultimate epi-me,
Striding vainly along memory’s boulevards
Grasping at the heart of things?

Isn’t that, too, some determinate of blood and soil?
Of circumstance stenciled onto a genetic landscape,
Long fixed, long before I thought to uncover it?

Go back far enough, and we are all progeny
Of blind, pointless chemical replication,
Some accident of electromechanical impulse
Upon a sludge.