R.I.P. ~ George Carlin

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
click here --> He had a lot of fun with WORDS.
and something to say about Soft Language <-- click here

Shit may just be the most powerful word in the English language.

You can be shit faced, be shit out of luck, or have shit for brains. With a little effort you can get your shit together, find a place for your shit or decide to shit or get off the pot.

You can smoke shit, buy shit, sell shit, lose shit, find shit, forget shit, and tell others to eat shit and die. You can shit or go blind, have a shit fit or just shit your life away. People can be shit headed, shit brained, shit blinded, and shit over.

Some people know their shit while others can't tell the difference between shit and shineola. There are lucky shits, dumb shits, crazy shits, and sweet shits. There is bull shit, and horse shit and chicken shit. You can throw shit, sling shit, catch shit, or duck when the shit hits the fan.

You can take a shit, give a shit, or serve shit on a shingle. You can find yourself in deep shit, or be happier than a pig in shit. Some days are colder than shit, some days are hotter than shit. Some days are just plain shitty. Some music sounds like shit, things can look like shit, and there are times when you feel like shit.

You can have too much shit, not enough shit, the right shit, the wrong shit or a lot of weird shit. You can carry shit, have a mountain of shit, or find yourself up shit creek without a paddle. Sometimes you really need this shit and sometimes you don't want any shit at all. Sometimes everything you touch turns to shit and other times you swim in a lake of shit and come out smelling like a rose.

When you stop to consider all the facts, it's the basic building block of creation. And remember, once you know your shit, you don't need to know anything else.

George Carlin

Grackle

For Sidney Bechet

▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼

For Sidney Bechet
By Philip Larkin
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

That note you hold, narrowing and rising, shakes
Like New Orleans reflected on the water,
And in all ears appropriate falsehood wakes,

Building for some a legendary Quarter
Of balconies, flower-baskets and quadrilles,
Everyone making love and going shares--

Oh, play that thing! Mute glorious Storyvilles
Others may license, grouping around their chairs
Sporting-house girls like circus tigers (priced

Far above rubies) to pretend their fads,
While scholars manqués nod around unnoticed
Wrapped up in personnels like old plaids.

On me your voice falls as they say love should,
Like an enormous yes. My Crescent City
Is where your speech alone is understood,

And greeted as the natural noise of good,
Scattering long-haired grief and scored pity.

▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼

۝ Snake ۝

۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝

Snake
By Theodore Roethke
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I saw a young snake glide
Out of the mottled shade
And hang, limp on a stone:
A thin mouth, and a tongue
Stayed, in the still air.

It turned; it drew away;
Its shadow bent in half;
It quickened and was gone

I felt my slow blood warm.
I longed to be that thing.
The pure, sensuous form.

And I may be, some time.

۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝

۝ If I Could Tell You ۝

۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝

If I Could Tell You
By W.H. Auden
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose all the lions get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.

۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝

۝ Mushrooms ۝

۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝

Mushrooms
By Sylvia Plath
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly

Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.

Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.

Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,

Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,

Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We

Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking

Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!

We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,

Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:

We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot's in the door.

۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝

۝ Hymn To Apollo ۝

۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝

Hymn To Apollo
By John Keats
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

GOD of the golden bow,
And of the golden lyre,
And of the golden hair,
And of the golden fire,
Charioteer
Of the patient year,
Where---where slept thine ire,
When like a blank idiot I put on thy wreath,
Thy laurel, thy glory,
The light of thy story,
Or was I a worm---too low crawling for death?
O Delphic Apollo!

The Thunderer grasp'd and grasp'd,
The Thunderer frown'd and frown'd;
The eagle's feathery mane
For wrath became stiffen'd---the sound
Of breeding thunder
Went drowsily under,
Muttering to be unbound.
O why didst thou pity, and beg for a worm?
Why touch thy soft lute
Till the thunder was mute,
Why was I not crush'd---such a pitiful germ?
O Delphic Apollo!

The Pleiades were up,
Watching the silent air;
The seeds and roots in Earth
Were swelling for summer fare;
The Ocean, its neighbour,
Was at his old labour,
When, who---who did dare
To tie for a moment, thy plant round his brow,
And grin and look proudly,
And blaspheme so loudly,
And live for that honour, to stoop to thee now?
O Delphic Apollo!

۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝