The Rip Post                                                                                              


JOE SHINN IS TURNING SIXTY

Joe Shinn was turning sixty, and the sky was turning red
Horses danced on flatbed trucks, drank and lost their heads
The birds, they wrote some verse, and the cats fried up some eggs
Joe Shinn was turning sixty, and seashells all grew legs. . .


Joe Shinn was turning sixty
, to taunt eternity
And what-has-been and what-can't-know and all-what-cannot-see
The sky was there, and morning dew, and sagebrush smell on wind,
to hear his rant and poem and song and roaring guitar din


What is Shinn, but the edge of air, the corner of ocean wave
The midnight light the blind see, and the poems that have no name

He's host in a world no one can own, a corner bright and clean
Where laugh and love are food enough, and time is smithereen

Joe Shinn was turning sixty, and the sky was glowing green
The dogs were howling upside down, the moon had purple sheen

                                               ---Charles Bogle

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