Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Poem for Choices
by Carl J. Schroeder, 5/16, copyright 2006
I could write this poem,
or I could write some bills,
or maybe I should first signup
to pay my bills online.
What happens to life
when everything becomes a genre work?
We recognize the style, mode,
and what's supposed to happen next.
Be it satire or serious,
it's all so of a pattern,
however personally brilliant for someone.
At other times I'm amazed
at the things I forgot I knew,
but I come across again somehow.
They make me want to stay up all night
and make art from the experience.
But the art has already piled up,
and I have a goal for the morning.
How long would I have to live
to view the estimated 10 million or more
insect species upon the earth,
the most plentiful lifeform group by far,
of which less than ten percent
has been seen by anyone at all?
Life is extremely huge, really big,
brimming with lovely little mediocrities,
any one of which could absorb a lifetime.
sometimes I have no idea what's worth doing next,
until my stomach gives me a clue.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Jots and new column
How can the Buddha desire to live without desire?
If Henry David Thoreau really meant it when he said "Simplify simplify", why didn't he just say "Simplify"?
Didn't William of Ockham prefer to be called Bill?
Whose fault is a culture of blame?