No. 1

on the path of breath,
the i may seem,
an entity, disjoint,
but being rests on
being like and being not.

and inside, all the while
the condition of
clockwork animus:
i am riding my time,
waiting and watching,

the enemy in me.





Too

Sunglasses hide the eyes,
And also the intentions,
And a hat's a clever guise,
that no-one ever mentions.





III

its tail is its head,
and its head is its tail,
and its silence is golden,
that inner-city whale.





4 Trapa

The double Engel formula

E. E.'s career at Tech
was marked in the end
by a fine Defensive stand
against three sober heads
so gingerly attached
to the coarse reality
of hair and arms and legs.

And we with our milky scones
just sat there, looking on,
watching but not seeing
for within one simple starting sentence,
we had been lowered so carefully
to a stupor primordial,
our humble provenance.

Triumphant then the newly grads,
Gathered arcane robes about them,
And received the brand of PhD,
As they crossed the blessed podium,
And it was in such a moment,
That our hero mustered all he could,
And with five years of mental training,
Under the master Yoda-Vogan,
he blurted out `Engel Engel',
which doesn't rhyme with anything.





(v)

Touch-me-rugby

Now, even though he's been at M I T,
Pete still perceived before him,
an ocean's worth of women,
And with goggles well secured,
Pete was always in there swimmin'.

But one thing is for certain,
Trap will not play the game of Touch
indeed, not quite so much
when finally he heads out west,
to a mormonic state of mind.





(six)

The adversary

Pete's appearance in the world
Was cause for parental joy
But they didn't let him off scot free
`We need another boy.'

And so along came Pat,
A fraternal reality check,
To keep Pete in his box
And the endless fighting had begun
with reason found in everything.
From what to wear and what to eat,
To how to pass a rugby ball,
Divergent views between them stormed,
These lads discussed it all.

But now the hand-to-hand warfare
Must partially remove
to other battlefields
Where abuse will come in emails,
eboxing, as it were.
And this Time aparT from brotherly enM I T
Pete will miss Pat's words of care
`How are you doing,... back there?'





(7)

Trapital correctness

Trap, it must be said,
Is a man of some precision,
Bow-tied at birth there was
nary a chance
for a miracle revision.

An ability to illuminate
the subtleties
of the illusive suspension fork,
To delve into peculiar poems,
and extract all kinds of reasons,
A grooming built on haircuts
that people set their watches to,
An orderedness of home and work,
that would make any mother swoon,
Well pressed suits and polished shoes
The man for all your seasons,
And abstract math to back it up
Why, he can even do your taxes;
Thank-you notes and perfect manners
(Some might say a suck)
But whatever old Engel Engel gains
It won't be found by luck.

Trapa nascitur.





(ayot)

Roosters

Beyond all this,
And sad as parting is,
We shan't forget this time of
aM I T at MIT.

The roosters now,
Are all out of the bag,
And they're hard to get back in;
But occasionally they'll come together,
And make an endless din,
And it's not so hard to find them
For they share a common feather.





3 times 3

Winter

The death of winter is upon us;
Snowflakes swarm the April air.
The white army of the heavens,
Kamikazes to the stricken ground,
To cloak firm all things,
Smothering all signs of life;
Yet, 'tis a desperate attack,
A moment's battle
In the eternal rounds of War.
While winter brings an end apparent,
The death of winter will ever end
In winter's death itself.
Until then, we can but last the storm.

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