Non erit satura est scriptor nasus quando emptore magis est vera sapientia, quam venditor (5) ( 最高領導人 )

     [Series Note]
    As I often say, the satirist has a better nose for truth than the seller of sagacity. And, of course, as you no doubt know, and have often heard: “Non erit satura est scriptor nasus quando emptore magis est vera sapientia, quam venditor,” that is, “There will be a satire’s nose when the buyer is true wisdom rather than the seller.”

To Serve Bats 最高領導人

Gee gin and pee
Xi Jinping has destroyed
all holidays with his virus
from His Honor’s culpable lab

Be real, people, the
Wuhan little old country peoples’ lab,
being a virology lab for the collective,
heavenly of utmost respect and veneration,
is a germ-warfare lab for
the glory of the “you-know-who” Party.

Mr. She, not of Mother Nature
has ended all Holidays, and thus
for 2020:

Besides Grandma who
insisted that the family gather together,
Mother is dead in her nursing home, and
now the family will never gather again for
Thanksgiving or Christmas because
the children have their excuses to
dis-invite the obnoxious relatives forever after

Thank you Mr. She for
ending the gathering of the
Capitalist Family of the

Thanks to you
1984 is updated.

Non erit satura est scriptor nasus quando emptore magis est vera sapientia, quam venditor (2) (Dick & Jane)

     [Series Note]
    As I often say, the satirist has a better nose for truth than the seller of sagacity. And, of course, as you no doubt know, and have often heard: “Non erit satura est scriptor nasus quando emptore magis est vera sapientia, quam venditor,” that is, “There will be a satire’s nose when the buyer is true wisdom rather than the seller.”

Dick and Jane Can’t Draw (Draft 3)

My friend Jane wants to be an artist.
See Jane draw.
Jane has a dog named Fred.
Fred can’t draw bee’cause
he likes to do the twist.

The teacher yelled at my friend
bee’cause Jane draws too white,
and white is bad, teacher said.
Jane is a flesh color crayon.
She can’t find that one.
Maybe a frog ate it.
Jane wants to hide in a box.

Jane’s mom likes dogs.
Jane’s mom is a flesh color crayon too.
I like Jane’s mom.
I like Jane.

Our moms are mad bee’cause
the teacher was X-spelling
and giving us suspenders.
The teacher made mom cry
bee’cause she said
mom likes the Supremes.

Our moms say
we have to go to
deprive-it school
we brought
the wrong crayon

My friend Jane
is afraid to draw.
I told her not to cry.

Our teacher says
our families are bad
bee’cause the Union
said bad words on TV.

Jane likes Dr. Seus books.
See Jane’s dog chase the cat in a hat.

We are going to deprive-it school
bee’cause they have a full box of crayons.

I like when she draws me, bee’cause
she draws me with a blue crayon.
I want to be a blue crayon musician.

I don’t know why
Mom can’t be
a Supreme-a-sis

Alice in Wunderkinderland With a Hedgehog

Alice in Wunderkinderland With a Hedgehog

Alice Tired of Homer’s Odyssey

When smiley squirrels claw up the trees
and every cat meows for milky magpies
all the fields of Central Park are free,
and every school girl will unwind and read

So Alice in her yellow Carroll dress
spread her sheet on meadow grass, and
meadow larks chirped Volckermort, a
value-song for a feather-at-risk, but

Alice tired of Homer’s Odyssey
duh-faulty Greek tragedy dark, a
theme so far from Central Park,
or even downtown Wall Street

Looking up from her book she
was startled by a spotted white rabbit
without portfolio

The Curious White Rabbit

“Oh dear,” she shouted to
the curious white rabbit who
pulled and straightened his suit and tie

“Come, come,” he billowed
“ ’tis most unsuitable to shout at me
when I’m to lunch with
THE Chef Steagill.”

Though chilled in cold
furry thinking, Alice, behold
ran off without her caution indeed
to follow him down a rabbit hole

and falling down a cave interior
she felt too big to manage when
the rabbit through a tiny door went

But the doorknob had lips
and devised a sinister tip:
“Drink the tea from mushroom lake
and you will shrink my dear
to a manageable size.”

When Alice applied his advice
she felt peculiar in drinking:
a discreet shudder cooing
for a door d’esprit looming,
every growing thing
then knowing tiny her

Enter, the doorknob said
as it twisted itself ahead where
knowing her stands
Alice found Wunderkinderland,

land where stood the Caterpillar
who did smoke a hookah in
multi-armed charm

“Hookah booo-kah, indeed; whooo
goes there? Speak!” he decreed

“ ’tis me, um, it is I, Alice
a refugee.”

“Indeed I see; delighted.
It being your unbirthday
then you must be invited
to boogie at
the bank unholiday.”


“Boo-kah, boo-kah, it’s not your birthday —
is it now, nor would you be closing any banks?”

“Um, no
I don’t think so”

“Indeed, and there down the road
meet the Mad Potter and meet the May Hare
for the devil-may-care unholiday dare…”

The Caterpillar Sells Alice Insurance

“But,” he chortled, “it is you
whooo must buy the insurance…”


“You must have insurance —
for endurance, for endurance
it is you, dear, whooo
must have insurance, and for
every leg and every segment I have
a million dollars for salve. So dear
write me a check for a billion dollars.”

“I… I… I’d wish upon a star for that
but it’s quite bizarre
you’d think I’d have it.”

“Yoooou indeed. We’ll lend you credits.”

And so it was
with a thousand hands
he wrote a thousand papers

“Cry on these dear,” he said
“And the deal is done.
sign for a sign
sign on, sign on and
follow the sign, dear.”

The signs Alice followed thus
were not only circuitous
but harebrained ludicrous:
“May Stop”, “May Go”, “Mayhem”,
“come See the May Hare”, “May Potter”
“Comme ci comme ça”

Alice felt so-so unsad, arriving there
glad to see finally
madness in person

Maybe not unmad,
the Potter and Hare alone at
a one hundred seat banquet table
sang the un-fabled song:
“unsad unbirthday to you
unecstatic unbirthday to you
unsad unbirthday dear Alice
undramatic unbirthday to you.”
And after applause, the May Hare said,
“Now blow up the pie and
do not wish for anything.”

“Pardon me,” Alice said,
“I do appreciate such a
grand manic welcome
but please, if I may ask …”

“Yes, speak up, speak down, don’t mess up
the chatter to the ear, here here,”
pleaded insolent Mad Potter so
dizzily spinning on his chair-on-a-wheel,
“Yes do inhere the unsilent soul.”

“Yes, then,” said Alice,
“a pretty party — but don’t
I get a cake?”

“Heavens no. A birthday cake course?
One must have pie with explosives
to be unsilent of course.”

“Well,” said Alice in a mental haze,
“I suppose day’s pie, but shouldn’t
pie be round with cherries?”

“Silly girl. Pie are squared
and have birds mixed with sugar glaze.”

“Here here, not π, ” said the May Hare,
“ahem aha, where is Chef Steagill
with his catching pots?”

The Potter spun. “Pots? Yes pots —
lots of pots. May pots, mayhem.
May Hare, where?”

“Oh on my harebrain,
I don’t know where. Hey Potter,
send in the bloodhound and beagle.”

Chef Steagill Arrives

“Oh Hare, ’tis mayhem; look there
Chef Steagill.”

The chef ran in with clanging pots.
“I’m here here. There there all.
If everything is in disorder,
blow up the pie.”

When he caught Alice’s eye
she pushed the plunger

Kaboom sprayed pie
and the chef caught the bird

Yes indeed ’twas absurd
at least Alice had thought when

Chef Steagill spake like a bellyache,
“I’ve got it now. For
today’s unholiday I’ll make
‘Peasant Under Glass.’ ”

“Oh dear, goodness gracious,” chimed Alice
with words like a dance, “Dear sir,
you mean ‘Pheasant Under Glass’? ”

“Certainly not, dear girl.” And he began to sing,
“ ‘And when the pie was opened,
‘the peasants began to sing’
‘wasn’t that a dainty dish’
‘to set before the King.’ ”

It was indeed a harebrained song
so Alice applauded along
with the hare’s eerie squeal
a clap to the rhythm of the Potter’s wheel.

But the Hare jumped up upon the table.
“Table this matter, Sir. For without Mr. Glass
it’s an impossible task.”

“Very well,” said the chef, “I’ll bend:
one hundred meals to be served —
then let it be then
croquettes by the dozen”

The Mad Potter spun around four times,
a greater lunatic than slick.
“I’m incredulous thus,
even with the thyme and time,
you ought to know, by the dozen
can only be ninety-six.”

Alice was puzzled, but
the chef was un-non-plussed

“Only a possum,” he said,
“would say non possumus.
It’s un-impossible
for a man with certificates.”

The Certificate Dance

Alice was puzzled, but
with all the others, she was pulled
onto the grand table, and they
all held hands in a circle and danced:
“Certificates, certificates,” they sang,
“Everyone is certifiable.”

Alice was puzzled, but
on the fourth turn, fourth beat
the chef retreated and bowed.
“Decorum,” he said,
“Everyone please be seated.”

Just then, a little bird flew in for a drink, and
the chef dipped its tail feathers in ink.
“This entitles the bearer to four
croquettes,” he wrote on a certificate.

“Very significant, this certificate,”
said the Mad Hare, “and
dare you write the corporate bond
for United Flour?”

“No,” said the chef, “OK,
“better yet than croquettes
I have a bond for United Croquet
with mallet aforethought.”

“Outrageous,” said Alice,
“I don’t know about bonds
and all these phenomenon
but I love to watch croquet.”

“Hey! You don’t say,” Chef said.
“Pray tell. Enough said about endurance.
You certainly have the insurance…
You’ll see: while I prepare the meal
you’ll make a deal and
meet the mallets and the balls.”

“Pardon me,” Alice said,
“I do appreciate such
grand financial advice
and a chance to meet new people
but please, if I may ask…”

Chairman Potter spun around suddenly:
“Indeed, speak up, speak down, don’t mess up
the chatter to the ear, here here. Know
this, do adhere to the call of the unsilent soul.”

“Yes, then,” said Alice, “Um, seems a non sequitur
to meet the balls?
I’ve seen pretty balls, but
never heard them talk.”

“Heavens, if you love Croquet
and chocolate-covered grasshoppers
you’d know the rules: when a
hedgehog first signs up to be a ball,
he must make one sport speech, and
then he mustn’t talk at all or even
beckon with a mouthful of insects.”

“Pardon me … um …”

“Silly girl, you don’t try to talk
with a mouthful of insects, do you?
It’s been a mild winter, with abundance
of creature and grape to over mull; it’s
always impolite to talk with your mouth full.”

“Appreciate such much but…”

The May Hare hopped up onto the table
and began a thumping tap dance to
accolades from Potter mad indeed.
“Sing,” Hare said, “Insectivora:
Shrews and hedgehogs and moles. You see?”

“Pardon me,” Alice sang, “Shrews
and hedgehogs and moles, I see.”

Thump thump. “They live in
a credit-defaulty swamp

“Oh my…” And a swarm of flies flew
into her mouth, so singing she stopped,
but certainly hummed, stunned

The Hedgehogs Are Coming

Knowingly knowing something,
the others checked the forest sounds
for the woodpeckers peck

“Aha,” said the May Hare,
“It’s the running of the flies
and fly balls. You see?”

But Alice wondered
what was to come

Mad Potter:
“The hedgehogs are coming —
it’s the coming of the hedgehogs
to the banquet with all the
Zeitgeist and glory,
dressed to the nines
with their triumphant spines.”

The hedgehogs rolled in
like acrobats or tumble weeds,
and with a chatter-wonky prose
reposed on their seats, able
to feed with their noses on the table —
without doubt a clout indubitable;
forty-eight on the right had their portfolios
and on the left forty-eight undeniably without

Though chatter can matter sometimes
in vehement unwonkyness, the
Hedgehogian debate seemed
roquét-cious but playful,
nine wickets contentious
like all the nine Muses, amusing with
usual silly debates: the course
is a zig-zag, yes of course!
Oh no, it’s a
double-diamond pattern
that must be enforced

But out of the noise
a voice was heard:
“Young Lady, what do you say?”

Alice was embarrassed,
feared another faux pas,
wanted to be a
casual profound
for some
combo-sensible aha’s

Not too breezy, she thought
ought to find a tactful tack
sail into a cool wind, not into hot air.
“It’s like the Hawk and the Eagle,” she said
“one, sees a mouse running in zig-zag,
the other will pounce on a pattern… ”

But all kinds of shouts broke out:
“Are you calling us a mouse?”

“No, no, no,” Alice said,
“It’s a metaphor for detail and pattern —
to tack for tact; for tactics and strategy…
um, un-…, um… can I unsay, please?”

Kindly the Hare jumped
to her defense: “Indeed
you may, and I will say
strat-tea-tactfully, everyone
must have jam.”

So Mad Potter joined in with a word:
“ ’tis true: everyone must jam or coin.”

With that enabler, the Hare
ducked under the table,
rummaging up an under-lair.

Alice just stared.

But all the hedgehogs suddenly chanted,
“By the mallet, we must have music and dance.
Talent from the mallets
must fly in.”

“Come out from under there, Hare,
if you’ve, so to speak,
gone to Spain,”
Potter dared.

With a hop and a jump
the May Hare with guitar
stomped up on the table:
“Andalusia! Clap, clap,
clap, clap, clap.”

On the portfolio right,
claws and toes
rapped on the table,
leftward a rhythm with a
clap a clap-clap

“Andalusia! Mallets fly in.

Alice in yellow:
clap-clap, clap clap
“Andalusia! Like I could be
a frenzied yellow meadow lark
I see pink clouds astounding me.”

Hare strummed
with fingers across strings
feet and palm stomping
thump thump
“Andalusia! Oh mallets do land.”

Hedge clap
a clap-clap
clap clap clap

Clap clap. With heels on their back toe
and taps on their webbed feet
swooning flamingos flapped to the tune

Soon pink feathers descended
landing in table center stage

Hedge a clap-clap
thump a thump thump

Hedge claws on the table
paws clapping rhythmically

With castenets in their wings
the flamingos flamencoed

and with graceful beak to snout
hedgehogs and flamingos
danced about

But when a flamingo stood firmly on its head
Alice wondered what could have been said

To a hedgehog, Potter said,
“Complete, complete,
curl up, curl up,” as he
grabbed a mallet by its feet.

“Andalusia clap clap”
For the end, Potter’s hand talent
swung the feathered mallet
pink and feet tall, and
the hedgehog rolled
like a bowling ball.

They could have rolled
on and on, if they could’ve
cajoled their way to have
a ball, to have more fun
but it would have to be done
when the Hare hopped and spoke:
“Attention! Clear the table
as best you’re able
or even not. Stop!
It must be done by tradition.”

Between the lines of engagement
there was a flutter of birds disturbed
and a bristling to orders, but
mostly a disorderly compliance
to all the interstitial conditions

Potter concurred:
“The waiters will be here
but they can’t wait for long —
have your orders ready,
but don’t be forlorn

This made Alice unsteady in voice,
in her thoughts and in her mood.
“Wait…,” Alice said, “wait, what
are our choices?”

“Dear girl,” said the Hare,
“let the Mad Potter explain
since it is I who must go to
the under-lair retrieval and
arrange our ice water
and the Champagne.”

“Croquettes, ah yes, Alice,”
began a Potter hypostasis,
“an essence is dipped in a flour with flaxseed;
essentially you have an encrusted snack.
So don’t you be fatigued
from a choice of three.”

“Indeed,” said Alice, “and
these are which three?”

“Yes, for your benefit:
croquettes with walnuts and assorted chopped insects
or peanuts and chopped peasants in lemon,
or if you find that
that’s a dilemma,
there’s a third to chose —
let it be lemon ice cream
and fortune cookies esteemed.”

As Alice contemplated, the May Hare
came out from under
carrying on carts
all his paraphernalia:
hopping about with
buckets of ice water
and water guns.
“Fill your guns,” the Hare proclaimed.

Play time, Alice thought
and she squirted her
neighboring hedgehog
with ice water

Poor fellow being:
he rolled up in a ball and cried,
“Argh. What are you doing?”

“Oh, um, sorry,” Alice whined,
“I’m confused this day…
Aren’t we to play now?”

“You don’t understand, Dear,” said Potter
“The ice water is for the waiters.
“If you must play
get up on the table…”

“Oh dear.”
Alice was embarrassed.

Alice Dances

In unison:
“Yes, yes, yes,
up on the table
if you are able, and
dance to excess…”

Potter professed:
“Play requires extravagance
and the arrogance of fun
like a tamed water gun, it’s
the vanity of a solo dance
shooting steps across the floor.”

In unison proclamation with claps:
“Take the floor,
take the floor!”

Alice was floored by
all the imploring, but
stabled her doubts and
flew up like a flamingo.

With the prance of a wild horse
and flight of bird fulfilled
she strutted and danced
and twirled her skirt until

Potter shouted, “Duck!”
as the gasps were heard

“Yeow,” Alice screamed
as a trapeze bar flew
just over her head

“Watch for the swing,”
the May Hare said.

As it flew forward
and then returned back,
the Hare yelled urgently
“Easy now Alice; catch:
“just seize the trapeze.”

She reached up and grabbed it
and swung all the way back

“Higher!” they shouted
like the clouds were no limit,
“No thrill should be diminished.”

Like a flag ripped with care
her hair fluttered in the air

They stared at the sight

While lifting her legs into breezy heights
her trapeze in the air arced forward, and praying,
her hair exhorted all ethereal forces
to ease her beleaguering frights.

At the peak of the swing she heard
a voice from above, “Reach up
and let go.”

Ut oh, good grief, some
tricky maneuvers were needed —
which one, could be a tossup to heed
on the spur of the moment,
so still flying forward and up
she caught a foot and a leg
of a man falling on her

When she could
wrap around and climb him, she
finally looked up. A hoot:
it was Chef Steagill
on a golden parachute

A calming voice, but
she could hear his pounding heart
and smell his sweat; he
seemed cool
though he held his breath

Astounding were the
swoosh sounds to touch down
as gracefully they floated
down to the ground.

Inhaling the ground air
and helping her up neatly, again
the Chef was cool like an orator,
“Now be off Dear Girl, for
the penguins are coming
to take your order, and
we must all be
seated in our chairs.”

Alice ran back through the grass
wondering past a sign for Noah’s Lake,
but jumped over a hedge not stopping
for obstacles bushed or bred or snake.

She plopped in her seat,
near breathless but not:
“Um, thank you all for
that great treat. Yes, so
time to eat then?”

Time To Order

“Oh no,” they said. “Time
to order. There must be order.”

“Oh yes, I meant
we will after
we order.”

Potter proclaimed, “I hear
foot fall so great of waddling feet.
the penguins will be
converging here to greet.
Bestir yourself folks, do!
Invoke your order urgently,
water guns ready too.”

“OK,” said Alice, “um,
then as you say, not for fun
the water guns are for the waiters.
Then, not to be flirty, we give
them the guns without fuss
and they squirt us?”

“Gracious no, silly girl,” reacted Potter.
“Are you hot — do you have a fever?
Would you think a penguin is a provoker?
It is they who get very hot indeed.
Leave gun nozzle on spray, and
with a speedy soaking, just
be ready to allay their heat.”

As Alice was adjusting her gun
a penguin snuck up on her
and startled her to jump

As she suddenly turned, yikes
the gun went off
like a chiding cough, and
sprayed her returning waiter.

“Thank you,” he said, “may I take
your order.”

“Um, oh yes,” Alice said to the waiter,
“I’ll have lemon ice cream please, and
fortune cookies,” Alice remembered,
and sprayed him in allayment of heat

“Very good,” he said
and waddled off.

Blissed hedgehogs everywhere
sprayed ice water aloft, and
the penguins marched off
in refrigerated mist.

The Hare hopped about and
looked at Alice, “Is your
fever disciplined? Are you alright?
Would an aspirin be quite right?”

“Um, no, I’m fine.”

“I heard you ordered the
lemon ice cream, so in
the collusion of coolness
you’ll catch a bet on
the Croquet matches?”

“Um, I suppose, and you?”

“Edifying for you,
I might buy your tickets:
trade you for a bond
or mortgage instrument.”

“Um, an instrument? You mean
like a saxophone?”

“Hmm, never heard of that,
never owned it. I wonder if
the interest rate would be erratic.”

“Well, I imagine a lot
of people are interested,
seems to me they’d
like to play exotic…”

Potter intervened, “Yes, ’tis an art,
keenly everyone must jam or coin;
at any rate, interests are emotive, but
wait, yes, I can hear the motors
of the foody go-carts —
the snacks are here
the penguins are back.

The Penguins Serve

This time the penguins were fast
to slide trays of food around
like slippery ice bergs waddling,
everyone moving down with verve
making way for Alice’s vast servings.
In double-time wobbles the
penguins burned rubber, and
speeded away like old hot rodders.

Alice was startled and befuddled:
twenty-four fortune cookies to judge
each more than a foot long, one
would say, for a cookie extreme

The Hare hopped about and
looked at Alice, “How’s your
fever? Have some lemon
ice cream.”

Alice thought it best to enjoy
the lemon ice cream anointed, as she
gazed at all the cookies well appointed.

As she massaged her tongue with
cool lemon flavor, Alice flung a
savored thought around in her head
about what her cookie fortunes would say —
hmm, perhaps a crystal ball instead inside
and I’ll have to tell my own fortune,
she thought. Perhaps, in one,

there’s a frog that will pop out
but do frogs tell fortunes? Maybe so.

The hedgehogs ate their croquettes quietly
didn’t seem to want to hear their fortune told,
but she was intrigued to know.

Well, I suppose, she thought,
someone who eats all desserts
is bound to be curious
about the main things in life.

Alice lifted one end of a cookie, and
with a twist broke off a piece to eat.
It was pretty decent:
spinach and egg flavor,
a soupçon of shrimp

With the sound of the crack
the Hare jumped up, and
the hedgehogs took note.

The Mad Potter said,
“Pull out the papers,
and have a look.”

Alice looked at the open end.
“Goodness, there’s a stack of papers
as big as a book,” she said.

“Certainly,” said the May Hare,
“those are your futures contracts —
of course there’d be stacks.”

“My future?” Alice puzzled,
on the edge of disappointment.

“Struggle and risk — that’s what
the future is for — potluck,” Potter said.

Hare jumped in: “So tell us please
if next year you’re guaranteed
the right to buy wheat flour at
twenty cents a pound?”

Astounded, looking into it,
Alice read fine print. “Hmm,
it’s a bit confusing, though
seems to say I’m meant to buy
on a future day at twenty cents”

Some hedgehogs yelled out,
“Bad price, bad price…
we’ll buy it and sacrifice —
must be simple grain not fragile flour.”

Alice shuffled the papers around
and many different futures she found:
“Wait. Many more nested contracts in here —
makes me hesitate and need to scream ‘oh dear
oh my’, hear hear; may I ask a question?”

Kindly the Hare jumped in
with intercession: “Indeed
you may, and I will say
strat-tea-tactfully, everyone
must have jam. So yes?”

“I’m unsteady with many..
there’s grasshopper bellies
at ten cents a ton… but
forgive me if I don’t know tons…”

“Alice dear,” said Potter, “dreams
are made of risk and squishes, of
gibberish served cold — yet, all
can be seen in menageries of
animal-spirited chatter-nattery.”

Hare added: “As the grasshopper hops,
we are in end times on suspenders
in shreded unspent climes dreaded;
times of crowing and growing
of loco weeds and locusts.”

“I’ll make the most of this,
I’ll try,” Alice guffawed, but
had to ponder the looming
abyss of lists and awe.

Assuming some fun with life on a thread
a chorus in unison sang like the Fates:
“Open another cookie, sweet bread of life
fortunes on futures can not wait.”

Well, Alice thought, at least
a taste of a cookie fate, would be
an adventure in eating and reading.
Picking up a cookie firmly at both ends
she cracked the specimen open near middle.
She pulled off the smaller piece just to mull over.
“Hmm, let me see how crunchy passions astir.”

The Hare wiggled its nose.
“Ahh,” he said, “smells
like mixed mortgages and
stock index futures… or
is it stock futures from
the vineyards’ arts.”

“Well, good ouch,” said Alice, “It’s like
an onion potato chip
shaped like a pouch.”

Hare jumped:
“Hmm, onion, dear Potter,
done and undone are
the layers of the onion —
deem one layer gone bad,
peel off another scheme. So
what wine goes with
potato chips and
lemon ice cream?”


“Champagne!” said Potter,
“Everything goes with Champagne.
Everybody sing…”

“Drink, drink, drink
the fortune is future
in however it spins.
We can build a bridge to over there
and then find out that we’re nowhere,
oh ah
Drink, drink, drink, and
leap o’er hedges and
say what you think!”

Potter: “Hop, hop, hop
oh Hare, and bring us
our drinks so we won’t despair.
We can build a bridge to over there
and then find out that we’re nowhere,”

“Drink, drink, drink, and
leap o’er hedges and then
you can say what you think!”

End: “Let’s drink!”

Everybody drank a glass
and Alice purred. She felt classy
pulling out the stack of papers
from the other half of the cookie.
“Well, then, it concurs with
what you quipped ‘quid pro quo’
and also has many betting slips, abetting
the Hedgehogian Croquet matches.
Um, but could I ask… um…”

“Yes, speak up, speak down,
don’t mess up the most tizzy
to the ear, here, speak toast or cookie,”
encouraged hazy Mad Potter with wine
dizzily spinning on his chair-on-a-wheel,
“Yes do inhere the unsilent soul.”

“Yes, then,” said Alice,
“a pretty party — but don’t
I get a cake? Ooops, unsay I,
I think I said that already.
I have a question about perforations.”

“Yes certainly, be at ease
it’s perfectly perforated.
All the contracts are perforated —
you tear off along the lines
and sell all the pieces.”

“Indeed, but which to whom?”

“Well, you have pages, and see
wrapping paper and ribbon too.
You can make a package. No?”

“Yes, um, so, I’m to make packages?”

“Yes, silly girl, it’s color coded for risk
by the colors of the rainbow. Throw a
worthless mortgage slip in with a good one.
Slip a red slip with a blue and yellow one.
Leave a slip in from every cookie
and wrap a pretty package.”

“Uh, could I ask…”
Cake Now

“Oh, yes, make no mistake
you may have cake now,”
Mad Potter said with a bow.

The May Hare hopped
with mayhem

“Oh Hare,” said Alice at last,
“I’m roaming and lost like Odysseus.
Can’t I go home aghast ’cause thus
I wonder what everybody means
by ‘Beware of Greeks bearing gifts,’
so is it bleak or…”

“The Trojan War, dear.
But have no fear,” said the May Hare.
“There are no Trojan horses here.”

“But this is too weird,” said Alice.
“Such chaos must be a dream,
I’m beginning to think
of streams of schemes…”

“That’s madness,” said the Mad Potter,
“If that were so you would do the chant:
‘deus ex machina’ ”

“But in the scheme of things
all the words here would seem
to require three goddesses,” said Alice

“No need for that… we spin the news
for you. No need to spin the thread of life.
So what would you propose so nice —
to call down Clotho? Would Lachesis
sell short or sell long?” grumbled Mad Potter

“Goodness, girl,” said the Hare,
“If you called down Atropos,
how would you know
if it’d be the death of us
or the death of a dream?”

“So tell me this,” said Alice,
“What now is that thunder
in a distance of wonder?”

“Aha,” chortled Hare,
“A simple inquiry —
’tis activation of our
twenty lane highway.”

“Who comes to consort with us?
Shall it be less than consortium —
could it be Chefs
who bring shallots
with no sign of malice?”

“Well, dear,” said Hare,
“Not quite. Your Chef
will soon bring us the gigantic cake.”

“Can I have my cake
and eat it too?”

“Of course. Chef Steagill
brings it forth on private road,
then after, the millions will scream
and come like an omen. But first
the parade for our thirsts and
for all our Champagne dreams.”

At first there was just gleeful emotion —
an entourage of penguins waved from a float
and captivated woodland fans with a
ten foot high cake.

Onto the table for her with magnificent waddle
thirty birds placed the cake in exulted center.

“Make a wish for us all to survive, my dear,”
lead the Hare jumping wily wildly.

“Well, I’d think to make
a dream and reality compatible,”
faked Alice the fanciful,
who could only quake.”

Archemedes Arrives

Just then Archemedes
popped out of the cake
fully naked and said,
“Drachma! Eureka!
Put Euro to bed.”

“Hmm, well, that being said,
I thank you for
that sage advice, and
if I may say so
you’re very handsome in life.”

Archemedes looked down
at certain endowments:
“Well, as I stand erect, please
do not reject this:
Everyone must retire
to Noah’s lake because
lakes and spas are endless
for the gods.”

“Oh, Archemedes
if we could date,” said Alice.
“If not too late
I’d come onboard
your lonely ark to
be a two…”

“Oh my Alice you’re
like a daughter, much
too young for a disaster.”

As millions rushed into
Noah’s lake, of course
the overflow inundated.

The water rushed over
the banquet table and
swans found their voice
to sing their swan song.


River (Draft 1)

She crossed the river.
She’s not coming back.

First thing, she said
she’s having a bacon

She crossed the waters.
She’s not coming back.

Heard a Chinese saying:
“The journey of a thousand miles
begins with the first step.”
She was a year old then.

Now, the middle of a journey is
an agony.

She crossed the river.
She’s not coming back.

The middle of a river
is agony

She was going to have
an anchovy pizza
and a princess doll.

She crossed the river.
She’s not coming back.

The middle a phone call
is agony

A long journey has

She was going to
have an apple pie.

A journey

In the middle
she was raped.

A journey to the river
has a billion steps

A river.

She drowned.

Test 2

Purple stuff. OK, I think I have to add “classic block” and then immediately go to the vertical dots for “options” and choose the HTML option if I want to the limited number of HTML things that I learned out of desperate necessity once before.I’m not sure if I mix and match little font things. I’m tired. I think I’ll just try this and maybe wait until tomorrow to show the hidden brackets I’m using. I don’t remember the escape characters for showing the hidden brackets without them being hidden( when functioning etc. OK, so now I hit “publish” and it nags me to do more things and then I have push “Publish” again and again, or is it the escape key on the keyboard. I don’t know: I’m tired and confused.

Test 1

Block 0

What’s the box for. It delimits what. I don’t know.

Classic. Let’s see what can be done here.

Losing Our Shirt

We hired a limousine
to go gambling at
the House of Cards
in an Earthquake Zone.

They told us house rules:
we’d be playing strip poker.

We were big losers
and we lost all our clothes, but

the earth moved for us, and
we ran out into the street naked
escaping with love and happiness

Test 0

OK, so two things to test. See what happens to line-breaks now. And then if I can’t easily fix that I’ll go searching for the “classic block.” Nobody told me today would be doomsday. I thought I could continue to use the classic editor so that I could quickly set-up on WordPad and paste and go here. I think the line-breaks are going to screw-up now and so it’ll be too hard to quickly post and go and rearrange etc. So I’ll do this test from WordPad and if it screws up, I’ll have to do something on full Word for “DO NOT add 10pt space after paragraphs” or something. OK, I’m pretty sure the following is not going to format right, but I won’t know until I test it. It’s a paste from WordPad.

Losing Our Shirt

We hired a limousine
to go gambling at
the House of Cards
in an Earthquake Zone.

They told us house rules:
we’d be playing strip poker.

We were big losers
and we lost all our clothes, but

the earth moved for us, and
we ran out into the street naked
escaping with love and happiness

Oh hell I can’t post anymore because I can’t figure out the new editor (“improvements”)

    I’m dead: the classic editor has been deleted. I don’t think I’ll be able to post normally or easily again. This is impossible so now functionally I have no working website. I’ve been destroyed.

   Where is indent? Oh gosh, if I try to use “code” I’m going to have to buy a book on HTML. Maybe I should because the simplified version is too inflexible and the advance is too hard for me at the moment (between a rock and a hard place.
I don’t want the block paragraphs. I’ve done a shift+enter. I don’t know if this is a good solutions. Who knows how this displays on other platforms or whatever… I have no patience for this slow crap. Until now, I’ve done a mark up on wordpad and a quick paste and go here. Now it’s going to take hours. It’s nuts. I’m afraid to even attempt a poem. I think poetry and me are dead anyway. So no new stuff.

Ode To An Olive

[A Mythological poem with a Greek chorus… “Ferocious are the winds of fate”, an economic crisis, and a currency collapse. (Written around September 2012: EU in turmoil)

Ode to an Olive

Apostolis missed
his dearly departed wife.
Only the olive grove was a comfort now.

Ferocious are the winds of fate

Not so many years ago,
Apostolis and his wife cried
for a young Mother they never met, and
wept that day in sorrow and joy, wished
she could have seen the olives grow

Her babies were left
under an olive tree, abandoned
in the dawn that day when
the mother’s joy never rose
in the blackness of her shame

Ferocious are the winds of fate,
odd weather like a ferret at the door

Rumors told Apostolis
who the father was. But
ne’er a word to confront him
though he saw that weasel
at a fair once.

The babies grew, and
walked in the shade, had
silly escapades, laughed at
pressing matters
under the olive trees.

Apostolis told them
babies come from
olive trees

Odd weather is fate
like a weasel in politics

He had loved his olive trees
and the first pressings of optimists
but politicians managed arguments
like ancient Sophists under trees
cash-starved, and secretly
worried about drachma quakes
on some sneaky Friday night.
A cousin had the worry beads
and a drink of tsipouro for luck.

The European Union
was the Elephant in the room.

No worry: there’d be
a midnight train to Athens
50,000 euros to play against doom,
pay for a pressing matter

His daughters were
extra virgin fans —
served the traditional
with local spice and flare

But they were desperate
to leave him, the ancient one
and his columns of numbers
and of olive trees, because
they’d been to the Oracle
and were terrified by the words:
“When your father is slain
in the name of family, you
will find gold but not on Crete…”, so
they professed and protested
too much love for the old man
who wasn’t very old at all.

Ferocious are the winds of fate,
odd weather like a ferret at the door

He’d asked them to read Sophocles
but they were going on scholarship
to new worlds before
the Romans became afraid.
Chloë went to finance in New York,
Clytemnestra to new Athens.

This time he didn’t know
who the hordes would be

His family home seemed safe
the philosophers told him,
ha and he was the original alpha

But his daughters grew
wild parties, wild plans

Whirlwinds twist souls,
plans fated in the wind

This time he didn’t know
who the hordes would be, saw
follies and corruption
crushing austerity, but
Clytemnestra married the mayor
though he had had six previous wives.

She said, “Daddy
don’t worry
politics is new, and
Theseus is a clever man
with business connections.”

Ferocious are the winds of fate,
odd weather like a ferret at the door

Apostolis missed
his dearly departed wife.

Chloë wanted to build
a luxury resort in the olive grove
for rich Europeans or Americans,
said, “Daddy, finance is modern.”

Ancient are the winds of fate,
ferocious like a ferret at the door

Freaky weather systems on the news:
hot fronts like the flush faces of
ECB bankers hearing “Drachma”,
cold fronts like frigid pale faces
drained of blood by Dracula who
might run wild through Brussels

But Apostolis wasn’t worried —
had many Euros in his local bank,
but then again…

A clash of fronts approached,
very rare thunderstorms
and an epsilon on the wall

They said, once in 500 years
for such weather conditions
and the olive grove looked fragile.

Storms on his mind, Apostolis’s
eyes rained on thoughts of his young daughter
the image of a young Mother he never met, and
he wept that day in sorrow and worry, wished
she could have seen the olives grow more

Clytemnestra called,
“Daddy, don’t worry
I’m coming home
with my husband Theseus.
I love him more than you’ll ever know
and he is such a clever man.”

Odd weather is fate
like a weasel in politics

Chloë called,
“Daddy, don’t worry:
I’m flying home
to set the finances”

When the epsilon is
on the wall, prophets say,
a ferocious loan is like a wolf:
it will eat all your sheep

A peak of sun and Apostolis missed
the golden hair of his departed wife,
and he heard rare thunder while
he waited near a rare and
golden-tipped olive tree.

“Daddy, daddy,” yelled Clytemnestra,
as she approached from afar with a man,
but she stopped in her tracks at a shrub.

“Clytemnestra!” said Chloë
stumbling out of a car. And
the sisters hugged from afar.

Ancient are the winds of fate,
ferocious like a monster at the door

Apostolis missed them and
lifted his arms to the wind,
“Darlings of the olive grove,
run here before the storm!”

The girls ran to him,
Clytemnestra with her husband.

Apostolis struck him down
with the thunder clap of his fist.
“Fiend, fiend. Monster!
I will get my gun.” And
he ran toward the house
as the rain poured down.

The girls ran and screamed,
“What? What?”

“Fiend, fiend. That creature
is your Father.”

Clytemnestra sobbed
didn’t know which way to run
didn’t know who she was
who she knew
who she loved

Chloë said,
“Oh God, oh God, oh God,”
though she was an atheist.

Storm clouds gathered
as if nothing mattered.

Theseus hid under a tree
though it wasn’t much cover
and a foolish place in a thunder storm.
He didn’t know who he was
who he loved, who he should love
and he was afraid of hell, and bargains
he had made in a lust for power.

“Theseus,” said Clytemnestra
as a funnel cloud approached,
“do you love me more than…”
But she could not gasp a finish.

Apostolis shot him dead
under an olive tree
as if nothing mattered.

“Daddy, daddy, daddy,”
the sisters said.

Who can one love
when one’s only Mother is dead
and she has never known one truly

Apostolis said,
“Oh my darlings of the olive grove
I truly love you as much as your Mother
and your Mother and every godly Mother
and every god of nature, and as much
as every leaf I have seen you play under.
Oh thunder, oh sorrow, oh tears,
I love my dears more than ever…”

A tornado ripped the roof off the house
and an olive press flew through the air.

Apostolis missed
his dearly departed wife.
Only the olive grove was a comfort now.

As the sun rose
they rested under
a golden-tipped olive tree.

Ancient are the winds of fate,
ferocious like a monster at the door

But like a feathered tornado
something flew out of a tree

There came a monster
with the body of an eagle
and the head of a bull.

It said as confident as a banker,
“You’ve killed my patron Theseus.”

“Daddy, daddy, daddy,”
Clytemnestra said.

Chloë said,
“This is impossible.
Let’s all run from
this mutant fowl, or
Daddy shoot it — it’ll
be good cooked
in olive oil.”

Apostolis gasped,
“What do you want?”

The jowl of the bull replied,
“I was promised a 7th maiden, and
it is my due.”

Chloë shouted,
“Daddy, it’s delusion —
shoot it, shoot it, shoot it…”

“Take care of the girls,
your Mothers said to me
under the olive trees,”
Apostolis said to them.

When the epsilon is
on the wall, prophets say,
a ferocious loan is like a wolf:
it will eat all your sheep

Chloë shouted,
“Daddy, it’s delusion —
shoot it, shoot it, shoot it…”

The Monster coolly replied,
“So what is my compensation?”

Apostolis said, “Take me
and I will help you.”

The monster grabbed Apostolis
by his shoulders with its talons
and said as if nothing mattered,
“Onward to Spain —
many Euros to go…”
and it flew away.

Ancient are the winds of fate,
let the matadors prepare.

Chloë said,
“Oh my God, if this
be delusion it must be fate.”

“You have gone mad and
silly like a raving raven,
dark in sorrow, crowing
about lunacy and fate,”
said Clytemnestra. “You,
my sister, are no comfort
and my husband is dead.”

“Well,” said Chloë
“it worked out pretty well —
the olive grove is gold…,
and shouldn’t we go
to the bank today?”

“Ha, you fool,” said Clytemnestra,
“you sophisticate in finance: the
banks are closed for the emergency,
for a month all accounts are frozen…”

“Oh hell, oh Drachma,”
said Chloë.

But they loved olives dearly.


[“…where I saw a vision of you once
and a prophesy…. ]


I have found one ripple in the ocean that
catches my focus, and
something stays in my eye
like a whirlpool in the tea cup
where I saw a vision of you once
and a prophesy.

I stare unfocused into this dark
sea patch of blue water imagining

you in a silver spiral
and in my mind I travel
through its tunnel, until
I reach into your mind, and

I seem to have captured the
chosen ripple of the sea
where clearly I see you.

I release a thought to you
for the wave to carry, and

under it forms a tsunami of love.

When it arrives
it will drown you
for a moment

but you will laugh
until a boat can bring you
the rest of me.