Not the lyric song of shepherds, my love
Bleats ungodly tunes in private. My unlovely
Irish tongue, Polish doom, a marriage made
For goats to butt heads by day, by night, love.
Goat Man Ches McCartney wed a Spanish
knife-thrower, his near-miss lethal lover.
In my act, you don't flinch, duck, scrape, or bow.
It appears you're an idiot for love.
Ches took to the road with a herd of goats,
A two-legged one who hopped—now that's love.
Dressed in goat skins, Crusoe and the Good Book
In tow, he preached smelly riffs on God's love.
I preach, too, you say: Once would be enough.
Finnegan wakes in my blood. My love,
Thor's chariot was pulled by two Norse goats
He ate each night. He saved the bones, by love
Restored them whole each day. As I do you.
Teresa means harvest, my love.
TODAY IN SLATE
The Ebola Story
How our minds build narratives out of disaster.
The Budget Disaster That Completely Sabotaged the WHO’s Response to Ebola
PowerPoint Is the Worst, and Now It’s the Latest Way to Hack Into Your Computer
The Shooting Tragedies That Forged Canada’s Gun Politics
A Highly Unscientific Ranking of Crazy-Old German Beers
Welcome to 13th Grade!
Some high schools are offering a fifth year. That’s a great idea.
The Actual World
“Mount Thoreau” and the naming of things in the wilderness.