dear god: no more boring poems about the rocks

Well, maybe just one more.

But only if the rocks

were once a boulder and the boulder

a bit of mountain. Not Everest or

Olympus Mons, but the smallest one

on Earth—mistaken as a hill

by both the yodeller and the mole.

The only thing worse

than being found naked? Caught

in lederhosen. I don’t mean

dead—but very much alive and

trudging down the slope so

scarlet-faced—for which you’ll no doubt

blame the sun

and SPF-point-five.

When does a stone become too large

to be a stone? Why must a

skipping one be as flat as

Amsterdam—smooth like the head

of a monk, chanting

Namo Tassa by the candles—

his robe the hue of mud. He sits there

in a stupor: without it there’s no lotus.

Thank you, Lama Obvious.

If all is emptiness—then fuck off with

your begging bowl.

The bread here’s hard as granite—

day-old, my ass. Try baked in the

Pleistocene. Its best before tag

being switched by a Cro-Magnon.

You told me once

that Wilma had sex with

The Great Gazoo. That’s why Pebbles’

crown of green was dyed

bright red. Why she spouted

such sweet gibberish.

Did you know there’s

actually a dictionary for such?

If they can do it for Klingonese,

why not the babble of babes?

Hear how they utter rock—

that heartless, jagged creature

they say can never feel a thing—

even when we hurl one back

to sea, as if it was somehow

better off there in the land

from whence it came.

Andreas Gripp

April 17, 2026

RF Photograph