"Moose and Squirrel are Dead" (Pessoa rhymes, I.)

Minaret fare, Octoberary outlook
burns me where the paradox transplants are.
With ulcer algid storm comes no bright book
but snow efts dancing. Better, now, by far
to follow through with less than sphingid will;
a carnival of sores arrayed. Abroad,
severe meld. A quaking in the still,
this battery is kaput and long ignored
bonks foregather in the erg Grob bridged.
You see them, oft, at eve. Violet-seeming
guru guano from these isles. Abridged
album. Oolong igloo soon from being
smudged. But let our Myanmar gorp's fez gleams
tarry at the hour the sasquatch dreams.


Geocaching.


My World is Not of This Kingdom.


   "Madrigal

A dædal of my death--
I semble now that subtle worm uneath:
Which, prone to its own ill, can take no rest:
For, with strange thoughts possess'd,
I feed on fading leaves
Of hope, which me deceives
And thousand webs doth warp within my breast.
And thus in end unto myself I weave
A fast-shut prison-- No! but even a grave."

--William Drummond, in: Rare Poems of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (ed Linton, 1883)


Tank Man.


Temple of Humankind.