Well, maybe just one more.
But only if the rocks
were once a boulder and the boulder
a bit of mountain. Not Everest or
Olympus Mons, but the smallest one
on Earth—mistaken as a hill
by both the yodeller and the mole.
The only thing worse
than being found naked? Caught
in lederhosen. I don’t mean
dead—but
very much alive and
trudging down the slope so
scarlet-faced—for which you’ll no doubt
blame the sun
and SPF-point-five.
When does a stone become too large
to be a stone? Why must a
skipping one be as flat as
Amsterdam—smooth like the head
of a monk, chanting
Namo Tassa by the candles—
his robe the hue of mud. He sits there
in a stupor: without it there’s no lotus.
Thank you, Lama Obvious.
If all is emptiness—then fuck off with
your begging bowl.
The bread here’s hard as granite—
day-old, my ass. Try baked in the
Pleistocene. Its best before tag
being switched by a Cro-Magnon.
You told me once
that Wilma had sex with
The Great Gazoo. That’s why Pebbles’
crown of green was dyed
bright red. Why she spouted
such sweet gibberish.
Did you know there’s
actually a dictionary for such?
If they can do it for Klingonese,
why not the babble of babes?
Hear how they utter rock—
that heartless, jagged creature
they say can never feel a thing—
even when we hurl one back
to sea, as if it was somehow
better off there in the land
from whence it came.
Andreas Gripp
April 17, 2026
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