Look. I’ve got important things to do. So I have asked my poet friend Beatitude Tutman to write something for the Pig. Something really deep that no one can understand but makes them want to try so they can argue about it in the comments while I get some work done.
Tutman, as you may know, lives in a beach hut in Matzatlan on the Pacific coast of Mexico, trying to maintain a traditional beatnik life style while surrounded by drug lords shooting at each other. He says he has to write really fast which is good because that’s how you get to the real Zen Tutman truth. Here’s what he sent.
Ochity Bochity, Diggery Doo
In the frothy bubbling bowels
that bled so blithely when they
disemboweled the basement
I found a secret signet
that secretes a certain substance —
and it certainly surprised me.
It warbled awful cheerily
and improbably began:
“Twee-dee, Twee-dee, Ti-twittery-tee
The bulk of the middle comes
after the ending.
The bulk of the ocean got sucked by
I’ll tell you the rest before I’m embittered
I’ll tell you the rest before I begin.
You mustn’t relax or rely on the mountain
Or stop up the children by dreaming up rivers.
You must tell the truth or be bitten by raindrops,
You must eat the apple or box up your goods.
Twee-tee, Twee-tee, Twee tittery-tittery, box up
your apples or lap up the sand.”
The question of time bombs (not brought up till later),
inevitably darkens the humble remains.
The landscape did quiver, I felt up the lightning.
It felt like a desert laid out on the plain.
I questioned the meaning of all of this questioning,
I could hardly believe it had lasted so long.
I trembled and quibbled like Awful John Littleton
but wouldn’t relieve the recalcitrant throng.
“Beware of the mongoose, old brother, old beezer,
The twitch of his tail may erase your amends.”
He toddled off dripping like the old veterinarian
had addled his hardly incipient brain.
The hair on his head stood up brightly
I begged him to cover his hideous stew.
The elephants gamboling like rainy-day women
could only incite him to riotous actions
like milkweed, like mosses, like elegant linen.
Like action, like unction, and pious remarks.
“Oh why”, said the carpet, “you tred like
It bothers me mightily.”
I can’t help my silly self.
Ochity Bochity, Diggery Doo.
Like Tinkerbell, Beatitude depends on the faith of children to maintain his tenuous lifestyle. Let him know you believe or he might disappear.