was the longtime gardener for the PBS television series, The Victory Garden
Nowadays he attempts to transmit information packets from the event horizon of a medium-size black hole. Occasionally one or more of them escapes the deep gravity-well to appear mysteriously on terrestrial computer screens.
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The winter wind’s a shot across your brow,
An addend to the sense of deficit
You wrestle with inside the here and now.
You’re happy only in the preterit
Or future tense—because you hate the cold
And you believe a sleight of handy grammar
Can save you. Face it, man: You’ve gotten old,
And soon enough the unforgiving hammer
Of time will smack you down. Although you knew
Already that a reckoning was coming,
You stayed the course as if you had no clue
How soon you would instantiate the dumbing
Down and the other mortifying states
That you are heir to. Drowsy sheep accept
What’s given, letting gods control their fates,
Though God himself has often seemed inept
At neutralizing existential pain.
You fear you’ll die with dreams still unfulfilled
Like everybody else, and you’ll complain
Until at last your diaphragm’s been stilled.