Tuesday, August 5, 2014

The barbarians are at the gates.

Rats!  I'm one day off.

From College Misery, August 6, 2012

early august bad haiku


it is august.  the
dog-day cicada reminds
me that some songs are

meant to be heard just
one month each year.  in two weeks,
new voices will join

the chorus, voices
familiar yet less welcome,
insistent yet less

compelling: less song
than drone, an onslaught of id,
thoughtless and unchecked.

august always checks
me, a small, persistent voice
above the holy

song of summer, whole
verses that caution:  do not
believe all that you

hear. all that you can
do, sometimes, is sing for as
long as the music

plays.  winter is long.
august, now -- autumn begins

early, and the art
of keeping the summer song
near enough during

august-absent months
demands memory absent
of cynicism.

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