Sometimes You Shit Roasted Chestnuts, Sometimes Persimmons

This Monday morning, in the car on the way to the 559 AM train, the book reviewer on NPR regales us with a poem. I should have known that treacle would soon ensue when the reviewer prefaces her reading by noting that the poem was written by a practicing Buddhist, prepping us for the timeless wisdom that is sure to follow, like you might introduce a porn star by mentioning that she’s a practicing hedonist or note that a book about saving up for a rainy day was written by a practicing Presbyterian.

The next two minutes of my morning are taken by a series of wandering platitudes, now input into my brain, perhaps later to slither out at an unexpected moment and sabotage an otherwise fine day, like an annoying pop song that you can’t get out of your head or my memories of some unfortunate experiences with psychotropic drugs in the 1980’s.

After slogging through a slew of pseudo philosophic bathos, we are read the poem’s first and only concrete images: “Sometimes you eat roasted chestnuts, sometimes persimmons”, it concludes.

Fuck YOU. Seriously.