[Curtis Gale Weeks]

<font >Odelette to the Literalist Critic

He's looking for Grapenuts™ in the stewpot;
he's thinking of gales on Oberon—
he's probably going to open the hood
when he oils the wagon he travels upon.

(Sometimes he feels a shudder sleeping;
sometimes he hears a ghost that stares;
sometimes he ponders a quantum theory
while shitting bricks under oaks by bears.)

You'd think he has given his heart to Satan;
you'd look for hope that Satan's just fiddling—
you'd certainly like to trust in his mood,
but his ass and his ears collude. (He's middling.)






[This message has been edited by Curtis Gale Weeks (edited December 08, 2002).]