In the Heart of Miss Somebody
by Romar A. Pabustan
Sitting by my window and facing at the jocund wind,
The running views of rainforest on the mountain’s strait seam;
Hopping insects and fowls and schools beautifully greeted thru sonata,
Jazzing and nodding palms wide as babushka,
But there’s a still paramount figure, still treasure and poetic,
Is the harmonious name of Miss Somebody.
Dancing about the greatest dome of the World
And coated with precious diamonds fenced with chambered gold
Posies and daffodils bloom its scent and everywhere
Waterfall sings and gleams with no scare
But could it be any more beautiful to see?
In the eyes of Miss Somebody.
Travelling on any place for finding the baffling happening,
Like Siddhartha Gautama’s Bodhi- the tree of bliss.
The mirth of victors when fighting swords perfectly halted
The sound of heart’s Nightingale always and unimaginatively felt,
Or could be a heavenly gift and even in paradise belt
But if you opted me the best in thee
I would not lose the loveliness of Miss Somebody.
Splendid odyssey desisted when crossroads reached out,
And the dilemma springs up: The music of adversity ceased by feet craft;
And almost reckoning breaths, shunning lofty prophecy,
O what a celestial life I possessed like a little lea!--
A divine life I got from angel’s poetry!--
But what are the paragon and lodestar of my headway?
But how’s this feeling accepted my heart of gray?
And why she was tattooed in my mind and never falls?
Is she and herself concealing the finest secret?
Is she and her ember touches looking for rhapsodically quiet?
Perhaps Miss Somebody knows the genuine answer,
Perhaps Miss Somebody, for me, would be there….
.................................................................................................................................................
by Romar A. Pabustan
Sitting by my window and facing at the jocund wind,
The running views of rainforest on the mountain’s strait seam;
Hopping insects and fowls and schools beautifully greeted thru sonata,
Jazzing and nodding palms wide as babushka,
But there’s a still paramount figure, still treasure and poetic,
Is the harmonious name of Miss Somebody.
Dancing about the greatest dome of the World
And coated with precious diamonds fenced with chambered gold
Posies and daffodils bloom its scent and everywhere
Waterfall sings and gleams with no scare
But could it be any more beautiful to see?
In the eyes of Miss Somebody.
Travelling on any place for finding the baffling happening,
Like Siddhartha Gautama’s Bodhi- the tree of bliss.
The mirth of victors when fighting swords perfectly halted
The sound of heart’s Nightingale always and unimaginatively felt,
Or could be a heavenly gift and even in paradise belt
But if you opted me the best in thee
I would not lose the loveliness of Miss Somebody.
Splendid odyssey desisted when crossroads reached out,
And the dilemma springs up: The music of adversity ceased by feet craft;
And almost reckoning breaths, shunning lofty prophecy,
O what a celestial life I possessed like a little lea!--
A divine life I got from angel’s poetry!--
But what are the paragon and lodestar of my headway?
But how’s this feeling accepted my heart of gray?
And why she was tattooed in my mind and never falls?
Is she and herself concealing the finest secret?
Is she and her ember touches looking for rhapsodically quiet?
Perhaps Miss Somebody knows the genuine answer,
Perhaps Miss Somebody, for me, would be there….
.................................................................................................................................................
A Harvest To remember
by Romar Pabustan
We’re harvesting golden corns
At the burning brown cornfield of Uncle Nestor
Not too vast yet too abounding –
Each corn inside a sack, garnering and putting,
Then all of us stop,
Respire in a brief,
Then return
Go back,
Garner!
Pick up…
Garner!
The irascible sun makes the whole field swelter,
Our insalubrious pairs of sandals, our protection
Against blistering soil
And, yes, the parched soil simmering on our dead faces
And the dry, crispy corn leaves scratching our perspiring skins
Weary limbs…
Ardent breath…
Teary eyes…
Minds contend but still self-pity prevails.
Minds assuage but still with weeping hearts.
Airless…
Squinting eyes…
Knitted eyebrows…
Then existence becomes lifeless…
all of us stop,
Respire in a brief,
Then return
Go back,
Garner!
Pick up…
Garner!
We’re like thirsty desert travelers,
We’re like panting street dogs,
We’re like marionettes and insentient wills are our strings,
We’re like dummies and concocted enthusiasms are our ventriloquists.
We’re like hopeless hopes,
We’re like unsung grievances.
We’re like…
We are like…
Nothing.
Then came a sudden thinking:
We’re like slaves.
We are slaves,
The slaves of perpetuity,
The slaves of no choice.
Emancipated in civilization
But slaves in real living…
The worst kind of slavery--
The poverty.
Yes, men are equal since birth,
But as your existence ripens
the realization opens
that life as men
is not even.
(Not even)
It’s not even.
That life as men.
The realization opens.
And when as your existence ripens
Yes, men are not equal since birth.
Is this life pair?
Nobody told us.
Nobody said it was dark.
We do not want scented words
Or clever criticisms either.
Walking together is all we need.
Walking on the same rough road…
Hand in hand…
For you to comprehend…
To realize thoroughly…
All of us stop,
Respire in a brief,
Then return
Go back,
Garner!
Pick up…
Garner!
(All of us stop,
Respire in a brief,
Then return
Go back,
Garner!
Pick up…
Garner!)
I found myself again at the cornfield.
Nothing changes. We are the same. It has been (and it will be).
Harvesting corns. Walking through the cornfield. Thawing on sun rays.
No water for this time…
I think it’s time to finish…
This is not the world we are looking for…
However, the mind is repeating a judgment for a beautiful life that
The façade of pain and beauty instill blemishing world,
Knowledge and wisdom are the cores of iniquities and commotions.
Ignorance is a real bliss but fathers unnecessary peril and martyrdom.
We have to finish the harvesting.
Our milieus,
the land of twilight starting to be the victor
the arrows of the daylight are now visible
Becoming more yellow,
Becoming orange…
Becoming reddish…
(twillight)
All of us stop.
Respire in a brief.
Then return
Go back,
Garner!
Pick up…
Garner…
Finally.
Harvesting is done.
.................................................................................................................................................
by Romar Pabustan
We’re harvesting golden corns
At the burning brown cornfield of Uncle Nestor
Not too vast yet too abounding –
Each corn inside a sack, garnering and putting,
Then all of us stop,
Respire in a brief,
Then return
Go back,
Garner!
Pick up…
Garner!
The irascible sun makes the whole field swelter,
Our insalubrious pairs of sandals, our protection
Against blistering soil
And, yes, the parched soil simmering on our dead faces
And the dry, crispy corn leaves scratching our perspiring skins
Weary limbs…
Ardent breath…
Teary eyes…
Minds contend but still self-pity prevails.
Minds assuage but still with weeping hearts.
Airless…
Squinting eyes…
Knitted eyebrows…
Then existence becomes lifeless…
all of us stop,
Respire in a brief,
Then return
Go back,
Garner!
Pick up…
Garner!
We’re like thirsty desert travelers,
We’re like panting street dogs,
We’re like marionettes and insentient wills are our strings,
We’re like dummies and concocted enthusiasms are our ventriloquists.
We’re like hopeless hopes,
We’re like unsung grievances.
We’re like…
We are like…
Nothing.
Then came a sudden thinking:
We’re like slaves.
We are slaves,
The slaves of perpetuity,
The slaves of no choice.
Emancipated in civilization
But slaves in real living…
The worst kind of slavery--
The poverty.
Yes, men are equal since birth,
But as your existence ripens
the realization opens
that life as men
is not even.
(Not even)
It’s not even.
That life as men.
The realization opens.
And when as your existence ripens
Yes, men are not equal since birth.
Is this life pair?
Nobody told us.
Nobody said it was dark.
We do not want scented words
Or clever criticisms either.
Walking together is all we need.
Walking on the same rough road…
Hand in hand…
For you to comprehend…
To realize thoroughly…
All of us stop,
Respire in a brief,
Then return
Go back,
Garner!
Pick up…
Garner!
(All of us stop,
Respire in a brief,
Then return
Go back,
Garner!
Pick up…
Garner!)
I found myself again at the cornfield.
Nothing changes. We are the same. It has been (and it will be).
Harvesting corns. Walking through the cornfield. Thawing on sun rays.
No water for this time…
I think it’s time to finish…
This is not the world we are looking for…
However, the mind is repeating a judgment for a beautiful life that
The façade of pain and beauty instill blemishing world,
Knowledge and wisdom are the cores of iniquities and commotions.
Ignorance is a real bliss but fathers unnecessary peril and martyrdom.
We have to finish the harvesting.
Our milieus,
the land of twilight starting to be the victor
the arrows of the daylight are now visible
Becoming more yellow,
Becoming orange…
Becoming reddish…
(twillight)
All of us stop.
Respire in a brief.
Then return
Go back,
Garner!
Pick up…
Garner…
Finally.
Harvesting is done.
.................................................................................................................................................
Life of an Eccentric
by Romar Pabustan
Like a clown never wants to be;
Like an underdog on a game;
Like a complicated one-button machine;
Like a famous novel of a ghost writer…
Like a pundit who plays a dumb;
Like the mysterious smile of Mona Lisa;
Like a reminiscence of a great grandma;
Like a melodious song but unheard;
Like a chameleon on a mossy hollow lumber…
Like a saccharine color but can’t be seen on Earth;
Like a bas-relief or fresco of no expression;
Like a breakthrough but undiscovered;
Like a gismo of a titanic invention….
Like a ragamuffin on a busy street;
Like a beautiful tome but nobody wants to go over;
Like a an unutterable miracle of life;
Like a memento of the dead prophet…
Like a stalactite in a dark cave;
Like the pebbles of a mammoth edifice;
Like a significant fossil under the ocean floor;
Like a hermit in the thick woods…
Like Christ and the Holy Grail;
Like a ferryboat that can never sail;
Like merging blaze and water—
Like an unacceptable true lover….
That is the life of an eccentric.
SEE ALSO THIS POEM ON THIS SITE.CLICK HERE
.................................................................................................................................................
by Romar Pabustan
Like a clown never wants to be;
Like an underdog on a game;
Like a complicated one-button machine;
Like a famous novel of a ghost writer…
Like a pundit who plays a dumb;
Like the mysterious smile of Mona Lisa;
Like a reminiscence of a great grandma;
Like a melodious song but unheard;
Like a chameleon on a mossy hollow lumber…
Like a saccharine color but can’t be seen on Earth;
Like a bas-relief or fresco of no expression;
Like a breakthrough but undiscovered;
Like a gismo of a titanic invention….
Like a ragamuffin on a busy street;
Like a beautiful tome but nobody wants to go over;
Like a an unutterable miracle of life;
Like a memento of the dead prophet…
Like a stalactite in a dark cave;
Like the pebbles of a mammoth edifice;
Like a significant fossil under the ocean floor;
Like a hermit in the thick woods…
Like Christ and the Holy Grail;
Like a ferryboat that can never sail;
Like merging blaze and water—
Like an unacceptable true lover….
That is the life of an eccentric.
SEE ALSO THIS POEM ON THIS SITE.CLICK HERE
.................................................................................................................................................
Gobbledygook for the Blamers
(Slangy poem)
by Romar Pabustan
Hey!
It’s your razzle-
dazzle again!
Ain’t you fed up
On being
nix
or bad egg?
Goof! Rigmarole!
Hooey! Jerk!
Watta raspberry for you, gent!--
Don’t think in your nut
The crazy word “stands the gaff”
For these fellas were the curmudgeons
And the worst gimmickers
Or even corking fudge.
Just for them you’re punk--
Kidding with duff--
whoops, give the gate
Those kibosh gags,
'Coz, still the reality is yours
You’re the pop!
( 2003)
.................................................................................................................................................
(Slangy poem)
by Romar Pabustan
Hey!
It’s your razzle-
dazzle again!
Ain’t you fed up
On being
nix
or bad egg?
Goof! Rigmarole!
Hooey! Jerk!
Watta raspberry for you, gent!--
Don’t think in your nut
The crazy word “stands the gaff”
For these fellas were the curmudgeons
And the worst gimmickers
Or even corking fudge.
Just for them you’re punk--
Kidding with duff--
whoops, give the gate
Those kibosh gags,
'Coz, still the reality is yours
You’re the pop!
( 2003)
.................................................................................................................................................
Who’s The Real Dumb?
by Romar Pabustan
Dumb?
Who?
How could we know?
Who’s dumb? Who’s genius?
Let me say what I know:
A genius
Can pretend to be stupid,
But
A dumb
Can never play deep.
A connoisseur
Can give what he has,
But
A fool
Can never give what he hasn’t.
An intellectual
Will never be self-proclaimed gifted or genius,
But
An ignorant
Will forever be overweening and pompous.
Brevity and sagaciousness
is always for a deep one
While
Verbosity and emptiness
is usually for a shallow one
mmm…
Genius can be stupid;
… can be fool;
… can be overweening;
… can be pompous; and,
… can be shallow.
But…
(Who’s the real dumb?)
.................................................................................................................................................
by Romar Pabustan
Dumb?
Who?
How could we know?
Who’s dumb? Who’s genius?
Let me say what I know:
A genius
Can pretend to be stupid,
But
A dumb
Can never play deep.
A connoisseur
Can give what he has,
But
A fool
Can never give what he hasn’t.
An intellectual
Will never be self-proclaimed gifted or genius,
But
An ignorant
Will forever be overweening and pompous.
Brevity and sagaciousness
is always for a deep one
While
Verbosity and emptiness
is usually for a shallow one
mmm…
Genius can be stupid;
… can be fool;
… can be overweening;
… can be pompous; and,
… can be shallow.
But…
(Who’s the real dumb?)
.................................................................................................................................................
Television
by Romar Pabustan
It is the most
Most influential
Influential invention
Invention of all--
Of all times…of all that
That dictates.
Dictates our cognizance
Cognizance without…
Without knowing--
Knowing of buying the
Buying the culture of what,
Of what inside…
inside? no wonder!
No wonder it is.
It is an idiot (idiot) box .
Idiot box for –
for us…
For us? Yes. Forever…
.................................................................................................................................................
by Romar Pabustan
It is the most
Most influential
Influential invention
Invention of all--
Of all times…of all that
That dictates.
Dictates our cognizance
Cognizance without…
Without knowing--
Knowing of buying the
Buying the culture of what,
Of what inside…
inside? no wonder!
No wonder it is.
It is an idiot (idiot) box .
Idiot box for –
for us…
For us? Yes. Forever…
.................................................................................................................................................
That Damn,
Opportunity!
by Romar Pabustan
That damn, opportunity!
It’s all poor man needed,
Not the agony definitely!
Yeah, I'm talking to you
Opportunity!
Who likes agonies then?
No one does!
you damn, opportunity!
It’s hard to catch at all!
That damn, that damn!
I’ve done it all
Still…
It’s hard to catch at all!
(Opportunity!)
Swoosh!
Swoosh!
Flash!
Flash!
Zoom!
Zoom!
Buzz!
Buzz!
Zip!
Zip!
Swish!
Swish!
Still…
It’s hard to catch at all…
(It’s hard to catch at all…)
qwertyuiop
qwertyuiop
(It’s hard to catch at all…)...
(damn)
.................................................................................................................................................
Opportunity!
by Romar Pabustan
That damn, opportunity!
It’s all poor man needed,
Not the agony definitely!
Yeah, I'm talking to you
Opportunity!
Who likes agonies then?
No one does!
you damn, opportunity!
It’s hard to catch at all!
That damn, that damn!
I’ve done it all
Still…
It’s hard to catch at all!
(Opportunity!)
Swoosh!
Swoosh!
Flash!
Flash!
Zoom!
Zoom!
Buzz!
Buzz!
Zip!
Zip!
Swish!
Swish!
Still…
It’s hard to catch at all…
(It’s hard to catch at all…)
qwertyuiop
qwertyuiop
(It’s hard to catch at all…)...
(damn)
.................................................................................................................................................
Frustrated Dreams
by Romar Pabustan
(Dreams)
Dreams.
I thought…
I was hoping to be like…
I wish I could …
But I supposed that…
Why it was…
He gave it then…
Why he deprived it from me?
(Time?)
Time.
Waiting time
…is an era.
Wasting time
…is outer space.
Busy time
…is phantasmagoria.
(Drama?)
Drama.
Every man has a real drama in life
Every comedian, every clown,
Every happy-go-lucky, every innocent
Every warriors, every pugilist,
Everyone has own real drama…
.................................................................................................................................................
by Romar Pabustan
(Dreams)
Dreams.
I thought…
I was hoping to be like…
I wish I could …
But I supposed that…
Why it was…
He gave it then…
Why he deprived it from me?
(Time?)
Time.
Waiting time
…is an era.
Wasting time
…is outer space.
Busy time
…is phantasmagoria.
(Drama?)
Drama.
Every man has a real drama in life
Every comedian, every clown,
Every happy-go-lucky, every innocent
Every warriors, every pugilist,
Everyone has own real drama…
.................................................................................................................................................
Phantasmagoria Last Night
by Romar Pabustan
Last night...
Floundering beggar—
Understudy of myself—
Fishing rod on dead zone—
A queue of tutelary saints—
Lexical meanings on billboards—
Matriarchs of woods—
Spilled milk on the floor—
Ruminating man inside a cabin—
Backdrop of my play—
An apocalyptic painting—
Working at a shoebox—
A high pile of documents on my desk—
Abyssinian cat sleeping on my lap—
Traffic enforcer holds a cat-o’-nine-tails—
An E-mail deluge and steam—
Prancing Indiaman—
Ringing cellular phone,
Slew of somber British films
Spanish bayonets—
Quagmire—
Exhibition of jet planes on blue sky—
Revving green porsche on the rooftop,
Disoriented knickerbockers on the park—
Czarinas and a doyenne—
9/11 on screen—
18 certificates—
Zucchetto of unknown priest—
Pollards, more pollards—
Engineer Raymon’s Humpback Bridge—
Symposium and furnace—
Glowing photo of Einstein—
Blurred 3D animation—
Blurred carousel—
Blurred lottery winning numbers—
Static...
Static...
Static...
Back to our real World.
The world of surreal reality .
SEE ALSO THIS POEM ON THIS SITE.CLICK HERE
.................................................................................................................................................
by Romar Pabustan
Last night...
Floundering beggar—
Understudy of myself—
Fishing rod on dead zone—
A queue of tutelary saints—
Lexical meanings on billboards—
Matriarchs of woods—
Spilled milk on the floor—
Ruminating man inside a cabin—
Backdrop of my play—
An apocalyptic painting—
Working at a shoebox—
A high pile of documents on my desk—
Abyssinian cat sleeping on my lap—
Traffic enforcer holds a cat-o’-nine-tails—
An E-mail deluge and steam—
Prancing Indiaman—
Ringing cellular phone,
Slew of somber British films
Spanish bayonets—
Quagmire—
Exhibition of jet planes on blue sky—
Revving green porsche on the rooftop,
Disoriented knickerbockers on the park—
Czarinas and a doyenne—
9/11 on screen—
18 certificates—
Zucchetto of unknown priest—
Pollards, more pollards—
Engineer Raymon’s Humpback Bridge—
Symposium and furnace—
Glowing photo of Einstein—
Blurred 3D animation—
Blurred carousel—
Blurred lottery winning numbers—
Static...
Static...
Static...
Back to our real World.
The world of surreal reality .
SEE ALSO THIS POEM ON THIS SITE.CLICK HERE
.................................................................................................................................................
THROUGH THE SKYLIGHT
by Romar A. Pabustan
Up there.
Many stars.
Anything you can form,
Animals, ships, huckleberry, Swan Lake
More and more!
Even lovely girl’s face of yours,
Through this night,
With the skylight…
Running darkest clouds and divulging red moon,
Creating lots of figures—lots of pulchritude
Like giant insects; Achilles’ heel; or Cupid’s heart--
“The Celestial Art”--
When looking through skylight
This night, this perfect night…
How splendid--
You will never forget it!
Up there.
Many stars.
Anything can be formed.
Animals, ships, huckleberry, Swan Lake.
more and more.
Anything you may ask for skylight
But my feelings can hardly form tonight.
.................................................................................................................................................
by Romar A. Pabustan
Up there.
Many stars.
Anything you can form,
Animals, ships, huckleberry, Swan Lake
More and more!
Even lovely girl’s face of yours,
Through this night,
With the skylight…
Running darkest clouds and divulging red moon,
Creating lots of figures—lots of pulchritude
Like giant insects; Achilles’ heel; or Cupid’s heart--
“The Celestial Art”--
When looking through skylight
This night, this perfect night…
How splendid--
You will never forget it!
Up there.
Many stars.
Anything can be formed.
Animals, ships, huckleberry, Swan Lake.
more and more.
Anything you may ask for skylight
But my feelings can hardly form tonight.
.................................................................................................................................................
Quarterlife Crisis
by Romar Pabustan
Twenties
Twenties
Twenties
Constellations
Attic
Skylight
Birds
Sunset
Skyscrapers
Kite
Hilltops
Redwoods
Telescope
Twenties
Twenties
Twenties
Socialites
Great men
God
Dreams
Inner thoughts
Tycoon
Master of ceremony
Promises
TV and radio
Books and Mags
Twenties
Twenties
Twenties
Who am I now?
.................................................................................................................................................
by Romar Pabustan
Twenties
Twenties
Twenties
Constellations
Attic
Skylight
Birds
Sunset
Skyscrapers
Kite
Hilltops
Redwoods
Telescope
Twenties
Twenties
Twenties
Socialites
Great men
God
Dreams
Inner thoughts
Tycoon
Master of ceremony
Promises
TV and radio
Books and Mags
Twenties
Twenties
Twenties
Who am I now?
.................................................................................................................................................
Boastfulness
by Romar Pabustan
It is perplexing to my principle
When that being boastful is bravery
And boastfulness is bravery.
When Bravery is
Not on right time,
Not on right place,
Not on right manner—boastfulness
It means foolishness
When boastfulness is
On time, or not,
On place, or not,
On manner, or not—boastfulness
It means foolishness.
.................................................................................................................................................
by Romar Pabustan
It is perplexing to my principle
When that being boastful is bravery
And boastfulness is bravery.
When Bravery is
Not on right time,
Not on right place,
Not on right manner—boastfulness
It means foolishness
When boastfulness is
On time, or not,
On place, or not,
On manner, or not—boastfulness
It means foolishness.
.................................................................................................................................................
Deadpan Comedy
by Romar Pabustan
I am a deadpan.
Feels like a drifter.
Looking meek.
Looking frail.
Brothels are my milieus;
Heists are allegories;
Debauchery and gaucheness
Are all affronted me;
Tempestuous life,
It is a true gash in my heart-
Courtesan would be courtesan-
Star-crossed stories are ensconcing;
Lycanthropy became beauty;
Charlatans are convincing;
Caches are now apparent;
Dissidents misread chrestomathy;
Man of akimbo has akrasia;
Champions are unrequited;
Alas is hurray;
Tunicles worn by villains...
Mockingbirds are now blue jays;
Blue jays are now mockingbirds!
Still Touracos are unheeded;
Tuscany is a battlefield;
Rococo is not an art anymore;
Dearth of fire is literary;
Opulent words are encumbrances;
Music is for the deaf;
Militarism is today’s commerce;
Science is more than a humbug;
Topicality is banal;
Elhi education is gambling house;
Religion died after Christ gone;
But I am still a deadpan...
Taciturnity is my spectacle;
Virtuousness is my spyglass;
Creativity is my enthusiasm;
Dream is my vista...
I am a deadpan!
Pride is Pulitzer Prize.
Death grip is the Nobel Prize.
Louver and Smithsonian are domiciles-
A thespian at his most sublime,
But battered by cat-o’-nine-tails,
Like conundrums with great details.
I am a deadpan...
Looks like a silent lamb,
But I am a tinderbox
Evocable acuity,
Me and my
Perspicacity.
by Romar Pabustan
I am a deadpan.
Feels like a drifter.
Looking meek.
Looking frail.
Brothels are my milieus;
Heists are allegories;
Debauchery and gaucheness
Are all affronted me;
Tempestuous life,
It is a true gash in my heart-
Courtesan would be courtesan-
Star-crossed stories are ensconcing;
Lycanthropy became beauty;
Charlatans are convincing;
Caches are now apparent;
Dissidents misread chrestomathy;
Man of akimbo has akrasia;
Champions are unrequited;
Alas is hurray;
Tunicles worn by villains...
Mockingbirds are now blue jays;
Blue jays are now mockingbirds!
Still Touracos are unheeded;
Tuscany is a battlefield;
Rococo is not an art anymore;
Dearth of fire is literary;
Opulent words are encumbrances;
Music is for the deaf;
Militarism is today’s commerce;
Science is more than a humbug;
Topicality is banal;
Elhi education is gambling house;
Religion died after Christ gone;
But I am still a deadpan...
Taciturnity is my spectacle;
Virtuousness is my spyglass;
Creativity is my enthusiasm;
Dream is my vista...
I am a deadpan!
Pride is Pulitzer Prize.
Death grip is the Nobel Prize.
Louver and Smithsonian are domiciles-
A thespian at his most sublime,
But battered by cat-o’-nine-tails,
Like conundrums with great details.
I am a deadpan...
Looks like a silent lamb,
But I am a tinderbox
Evocable acuity,
Me and my
Perspicacity.
