Jean À Paris

John’s going to go to
Paris in the Spring.

Do that sort of parisien thing.

The eating of chocolate,
baguettes and cheese,

the wearing of berets, stripes,
and mingling in the streets.

He shipped his chaise lounge
over the seas
so he can kick back and
relax under trees.

John’s going to go to
Paris in the Spring.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Off The Farm

When I am old,
hysterical and worn out,
running from the farm,

just shoot me in the head.

Don’t let me get off the farm.

When you’re done with the shooting of me
in the head
shoot me in the throat
to stop my soul.

Have a dinner for me that night,
back on the farm,
with red wine, root vegetables
and some type of roasted pheasant.

Don’t let me get off the farm,
even if you have to throw rocks
on my chest
to keep the gravity held down and balanced.
Don’t let me get off the farm.

The gravity and the farm are old friends,
synonymous in a way with each other.

Gravity’s high-volume generation farm
exists in the asteroid fields just beyond Mars.

DO
NOT
LET ME
GET THAT FAR
in the symbolism of intellectualism.