the crow picks at an abstract dummy
pitched on a post,
forgetting the field of corn.
it starts pecking at the eyes,
instigating some brash territorialism
that never so much as reaches for
an apex. somewhere a broom
reaches in and bludgeons the crow
with it’s hay bristles until it evacuates
in flight.
ah, the saviors of abstraction.
the postmodern preachers grasping
straws for explanation.
but, friend, this is dada,
and you,
are doo doo.
everything is nonsensical,
and somehow you perfect it
through your primitive reasoning.
this discussion moves swiftly,
in phases,
and it always ends at a draw.
now pick up my battered hat,
and leave me be
so i can contemplate this
and that of nothingness in being.
nothing.
the crows never bothered me much.