The world was never simple.
It never promised bliss.
So say the brothers Dalrymple –
Horace, Joe and Chris –
consumed by planting runner grasses
from the genus Chloris,
"which all but shoot out of our asses,"
snorts the frazzled Horace.
They sow their seed from Ulm to Rome
but like abandoned orphans
the runner grasses run back home
to boost their grass endorphins.
(True home has no equivalent.)
Stress on Horace, Chris & Joe
expands beyond ambivalent.
What’s ahead? What can one know?
Doing, being, going! That or there
or this! It may not reassure these three
to learn they are exactly where,
have always been what, they should be:
at the brink of fresh disasters
pulling at them – with dependable
demonic tricks each brother masters
to make them seem emendable.
But say to the Dalrymple boys,
brave Horace, Joe and Chris:
The world has complicated joys
wherein sometimes there’s bliss.