Wednesday, November 21, 2007


A forked path, divergent in a wood.
one, a landscape of wooden men
who love to build fires from their arms
burning the inside first, then the out
my path is birch, all bark and no bite
burning bright and quick
and leaves little left for the beefeater to warm himself
(warmth is what you need when you live only in time)
Alas, eternity has its price
for I have taken the high(er) path
and it has made all the difference

1 comment:

Will said...

Intensely curt interpretation of a classically misunderstood poem. I think, unlike the millions of people who read this poem as a simple explanation of the counter-culture, you understand the poem's genuine sense of sarcastic individuality. Fucking wonder.

Thank you.