Yoda Carruth Can Sleep In My Pot-Drying Barn

One morning, to get my senses milling, I went out to check
my sinsemilla. As I was walking and pondering Artaud's version
of Shelley's _The Cenci_ I spied a tiny sensei, namely

Yoda Carruth.

He was praying. On his knees, appearing to be saying "Pleeez...."
to the knobby knees of some ancient Sequioa.

Yo, Da! I said brightly, in my khaki nylon zipper bootks
and long transparent bee bride veil with green neon christ thorns analogue.
(I'm nekkid!)

He replied with sounds, that to my ear at least
sounded like Tiny Tim opening a brisket of rotten cedar
like it was a loaf of baby's breath staggering drunk
at the horse races in a blizzard.

I pulled out an IPA from my rolling IGLOO brand tote
and told him,

There is much din, hey, Hesed
sounds like Hesiod. He looked up
with those big watery chipmonk eyes
and started to gurgle more cedar.

Okay, I said, uh, get a facegasm app,
you can download it free on-line.

Where be my WEED?
(whistling Devo goes off)

"Bongoloid, He was a Bongoloid
Nekkid in the USSR.."

Hey, you can sleep in my pot-drying barn, man!