It's Not Mary Oliver

TIME
FUCK SPACE AND TIME
BE
WHAT WILL I BE
WHEN
WHAT'S THAT YOU SEE
ME
AND HOW DOES IT GO
SHOW
WE SHOW NOTHING THOUGH
YOU
I CAN'T KNOW YOU
FOOD
JUST SEX AND FOOD
DEATH
IS THOUGHT'S LAST BREATH

by Timothy S. Donahue

It's not M. O., but it's my second favorite poem of all times. For almost fifteen years, it was my favorite and then I read Mary Oliver. Sorry Tim! (Timmy? Mr. Donahue? T.S. Donahue?) Even if it's not my very, very favorite anymore - I still love this poem. I love that it's in all caps to be even (not to scream - handwritten it would look like military handwriting); matter of factual angst; and rhyming in almost a little kid way. It's like an existentialist's hand clapping rhyme - 'Say Say Little Playmate' for black turtleneck wearing folks (or were those the Beatniks?) . Whatever the labels or dress code, I love this poem. I love it so much that it's almost worth getting sued for sticking it here without permission. (I don't know where to go to even ask for permission! Universe, can I have permission to put this, my now-second favorite poem of all times, on my blog? I'll take that as a 'yes' thank you.)
And today? It fits my mood (in a back-to-basics kind of way) so I thought I'd share.
Peace.