Written for the Solstice gathering at The Yard on June 19th, 2026
Turning tail to run, the night
Is banished by this pagan light.
Eternal sun lords overhead
To keep the children from their beds
And banish from our minds the dread
Of snow and winter, dark and dead.
So be alive, and celebrate,
And feast with friends, and stay up late.
The absurd mental geography of a man with way too much time on his hands.
Hold my face
while I replace
the holes behind
my seeping mind.
Eli Whitney, cotton gin.
Mortal combat, mortal sin.
Old MacDonald, open late,
it's a sin to m*********.
Steel and wood, an edifice.
Hyland mountain, witness this
fearsome verticality
soaring outward, endlessly.
Hobo sittin' on the railroad tracks,
Hobo eatin' from a flour sack.
Come here Mr. Hobo and hear what I say:
You're gonna be marryin' my daughter today.
(Quickly realized that I had a pretty painful shoulder strain, it got a little better though)
Shot in shoulder, holy shit
One hour later, over it.
Zombie hikers don't say "hi",
Getting out, but dead inside.
What does it do? Where does it go?
What kind of magic does it grow?
A trailside lamp? A luminaire?
A Hyland Hills electric chair?
Californians walk astride
The steadily encroaching tide
While vagabonds all turn their cheeks
To take it on the other side
Sand will make a decent bed
For those with heart and heavy head
The sea has something yet to teach
These sun-crazed dwellers of the beach
Round and round, and rise and fall
Up hills and mountains short and tall.
Endless outdoor carousel,
Insane, absurdist circus hell.
I'm out on a stroll, let's see how far I can go!
Oh dear Lord, there's a disk in the air,
I hope it doesn't hit me, I should've been more aware.
Now the frolfers are mad and I'm runnin' away,
I want to run over there but I'm a little afraid.
Oh I'm out on a stroll!
Laufen schnell gefällt mir so.
Es macht mich fit, es macht mich froh.
Laufen macht mein Herz schnell schlagen,
Und mich warum ich laufe fragen.
(English translation)
I love running fast like this.
It keeps me fit, it makes me happy.
Running makes my heart beat fast,
And makes me ask myself why I run.
Elected congresswoman was
All for the washing of the spuds.
Her conscience was depicted hence:
An outstretched arm, protuberance.
(Pro-tuber-rinse, get it?)
When farm is the course,
Spectator: Horse.
A chorus of geese in the grass by the path and they're roaring.
While me and my Toms put on miles single file like it's boring.
[Call me Dr. Doolittle]
Rub a dub dub, Turkey running club.
In celebration of Burns night 2026, the Tardy Explorers gathered and shared:
Ode to the Turkey
Curled at the foot of an ancient oak
On the slope of a wooded hill,
I wait.
For hours, I scan the edges of the trees,
Stare through the narrow tunnels of foliage into the farm field beyond
Until the layers of forest transform into strange shapes and my eyes grow tired.
Bird songs and gentle wind,
The occasional creak of a limb,
The dull, distant roar of the highway
All coax me into a pleasant daze.
A low, rhythmic thrum steps forward
To distinguish itself from
The general noise of the woods.
My uncle taught me how they will beat their wings
Like war drums, so I clumsily pinch off
A few yelps from my Quaker Boy.
The woods erupt behind me.
A resounding volley of guttural language
Peals around the trunks and off the valley walls,
Then silence returns.
Naive visions of how my adversary would emerge,
Clumsily and obviously,
At the end of the deer trail between my 10 and 12 O’clock
Swept away by the blunt realization
That I am being flanked.
A second staccato burst announces
That he is advancing
(hurdling branches, juking, rabid),
While I fall over myself moving my back
To the other side of this damn tree.
I wrack my panicked brain to remember the mechanics of
Chamberlain’s heroic wheel maneuver
At Little Round Top.
A flash of crimson through the brush
Sixty yards away,
So far to the right that my optic nerve is on the verge
Of snapping.
My heart, pounding, seems to have climbed into my throat.
My weapon feels inadequate
And unsteady in my arms.
Never have I felt more acutely observed
Than in the presence of this great beast.
A moment or an age passes
As I slouch here, shaking,
But the next outburst comes from far away,
The voice of my foe blending with the county road
As it wanders off to pursue
More interesting machinery.
The wind floats down the valley,
The electric adrenaline buzz fades away,
And leaves in its place
A shell of a man.
What hubris draws me into these woods
In pursuit of a god?
Ode to a Pissknife
Oh Mighty Pissknife, you glorious blade
you lay the freedom for the glade.
When nature calls, fury and fast
it’s you, that saves the day at last!
Held high, ye part the crowded way,
a biffy bound hero, bold and fey.
No crown nor sceptre has made more life,
than you; you bonny, bonny piss knife!
On the Carrot
The blooms of white
brought forth by spring
Beneath, a hearty taproot
Lacy and bright
with orange below;
Parsley’s massive offshoot.
Mighty carrot
colored by royals
on vegetables veranda.
Eat for better
optics spoils,
as said in propaganda.
Twa bunnies in the yard
(Chorus) Twa bunnies in the yard,
Twa bunnies in the yard,
Watching saunas heat and people’s feet,
Twa bunnies in the yard.
In the spring they came and made their home
Twa bunnies in the yard,
The yard with saunas big and warm,
Twa bunnies in the yard.
Good Peter, he watched over them,
Twa bunnies in the yard
In the mornings bright they’d talk to him
Twa bunnies in the yard.
When Summer did come, the bunnies they grew,
Twa bunnies in the yard
Eating boulevard grass and flowers few,
Twa bunnies in the yard
Watching steam rise from the saunas stoves
Twa bunnies in the yard
Funny people round with ner’ any clothes
Twa bunnies in the yard
Now winters here, it’s dark and cold
Twa bunnies in the yard
The snow is deep and the wind is bold,
Twa bunnies in the yard
The bunnies, in their warren dream
Twa bunnies in the yard
O’ the sweetest spring and summer’s green
Twa bunnies in the yard