And he rolls, rolls, rolls that big rock up that mountain
and lets it drop
along with names like Ulysses and Aphrodite
and Apollo and Artemis and Zeus
as well as the name on the white plastic tag
pinned on that red-polyester-jacketed velvet-eyed
curly-haired
little divinity skimming the oil slick
from the surface of the avgolemono
in the stainless-steel soup pot at the Terra Linda
Safeway salad bar.

We must imagine Sisyphus happy, said Camus.

Rolling, rolling, rolling, Sisyphus keeps rolling,
no dipping for him of tootsies into the Lethe,
however that river is pronounced,
pushing and pushing and letting that big rock roll
right back down again and again.

When all of a sudden Sisyphus is plucked
from his eternal task and plunged
into the cold cold blue blue of the Aegean,
and not a soul in the workshop has a freaking clue why.

dammit. more competition. and here i thought antiquity equaled quality.

proof i was wrong.

blackthumb for sisyphus.

w n c

Not a clue. Not a freaking clue.

Skim that oil slick. Yuck.

godawrrrful

Something tells me you're going to win this contest. I hope the prizes are good (I haven't read them).

Thumbs down -- way down! :)

I meant to hit the report abuse button because that's what this thing is when it comes to poetry.

I thought this was supposed to be bad poetry?