After Sino- Bio-warfare 2, Jane’s Daughter Goes to School

[Now that it’s been established that Wuhan is the center of bio-weapons technology(by another name) implicitly supervised by the government, ‘accidental’ germ warfare can be said to have occurred. See:
The origin of COVID: Did people or nature open Pandora’s box at Wuhan? By Nicholas Wade | May 5, 2021]

Marks And Angles
    by 道格拉斯·吉尔伯特

An old word on a path
of a thousand miles
just a saying, hurrah

uh damn, just saying a journey
begins with a single faux pas
said Laozi
not Confucius
ha

a word of confusion
a two-step to completion
an old word in subversion —
it takes a contaminated bat,
and a virus to conquer.
Tick-tock.

China had a plan
and knew fanfares:
peace on the road
to be woven,
friendships for
fair weather, a shrewd
bounty before a storm,

a word in malice
a step,
Jane’s tale
was to fail
in bans pretty soon.

The Wuhan plague
brought chaos, and then

when all the local stores failed
the aristocrats pro temp bought them
and Jane’s requiem began to play, hey

In a word
Jane had gone batty
over the Summer:

older daughter home,
younger daughter beaten
dead by the gangs, and

she had been annoyed by
the constant chants on the speakers
of the Chinese language lessons
mandatory to earn guanxi
as in Nineteen Eighty-Four

But she had enjoyed the fantasy
that fall would be glorious, for
the eldest jumped for joy
when accepted to
a tuition-free school
as good as Harvard, a
part of the Red Ivy League, funded by
a Confucius Friendship Society

Pandora’s virus box
had bats in it for Jane.

Her daughter indulged her
by sending hand-written messages
by snail-mail

It was lonely, and
all of Jane’s neighbors
took the trains out to
the re-education camps.

Her daughter’s letters were
incoherent she began to think,
or was it that she was going mad?

A government grant check
came with a flier
asking her to
memorize the manifestos

Pandora’s virus box
had bats in it for Jane.

Her decline was sealed
the day the grocery store
checked her credit score:
The princeling who owned it
refused to serve her because
she didn’t have enough caution
in social credits for conformity:
a black mark for twice not
wearing a red mask and
not passing her basic
Chinese language test.

All the stores had been
taken over by the princelings
after the coup d’etat, so
Jane had to walk far away
for Amerigo Supermarkets.

Walking was a complicated fate:
she had to hang with
the ‘hood committee
to negotiate with the gangs
just for a safe passage.
(The citizen’s police
had no guns anymore)

Her daughter indulged her
with an incoherent letter,
left off the “love” valediction —
no closing remarks, but
just odd disjointed slogans:
“repentance and confession,”
“remedial Mandarin,”
“Help Mom,” and
“Truly Transform”

The gangs received
new Chicago weapons,
joined the mask militia
or went back to the well

protestors
burned the Constitution
in a sunrise red fire
by the dawn’s early light

Proudly, great progress
was hailed without bullets
on the conveyance belt
and hellion roadway

John, offering hope, was long gone.
Pandora’s virus well
had bats in it for Jane.

Well, sitting at a window
Jane without living water
a heart attack

Love China,
or well

Killing Grandpa (3)

Something to crow about, and
everyone must wear a crown,
a corona for the glowing Sun,
a trademark for a dear beer
a crown for an evil crow.

The crow is
a family symbol
that plays with fate
stealing shiny objects
like mystery guns, and
who’s to say they’re not toys

Dad dealt in guns
had no regrets about
the crow of things. Omens.

No natural death, and
an inheritance for me.

For Corvidae
as the crow appears in desperate flight
this appears a good year to die, ’cause
COVID caw-caw hurrah boo corvid

yea true, my father died at 72 —
a cancer the grim blamed on him
and I at 71 demeaned by life
in Corona, New York

I’ve learned Dad’s business
with regret, but
my son’s an accountant.

But I’m obsolete now
with bio-weapons on the horizon

Years ago
might say I was like a foamy
beer near Flushing Meadows
of World’s Fair fame, 1964, though Dad
on Malta had his black market museum:
illegal guns in the ancient Hypogeum,
hiding missiles for dismissal of war guilt.

It’s a good year to die an honorable death.
the Grandchildren are nervous, but
I’ve put together some cleanly new
legitimate business for them to inherit.

Yeah, I know they want me dead.
Don’t blame them much…
but for fun I remember how I
let them play in the secret tunnels
yeah

it was exciting for them
to play in my tunnels,
and I let them hide in the
safe room so they could
listen to the oosh bang-bang
and smell the gunpowder,
hear the machine guns, the oofh-ow
swoosh, bat-a-tat-tat, ow-arg-uh, thud
zing, zing, chuh-chuh-chud, and muffled
screams, and it was so good to
smell the barbecue of the foiled.

Yeah, a little lie:
I told them their Grandpa
sold toys, and did laundry.

Yeah, kids, I told them
our crew liked
splashing red paint
on manikins:
it’s a war game, and
we always clean up.

Told them well:
Grandpa hated dirt, but
he made billions of dollars
washing things, and doing demolition.

They loved me, Grandpa, and
since childhood they’d
never officially known I
laundered money and
sold weapons to clandestine
really funny-named groups

Early they heard fairy tales galore
they were to believe as required
and as they were told about me:
he didn’t like public dirt’s roar
so he washed donor money; yet
he gave their poor children toy guns
to play with, unrestricted for causes

Although they stopped believing in Santa Claus
and the tooth fairy as young adults
they inferred that by consultations
the guns and the washing machines
Grandpa controlled with computers.

I heard that Cousin Joe
called the kids
with great news:

he had shortness of breath and a high fever.
heard the kids all gathered
for his very own sneeze party.

It’s a good year to die, and
I know the kids have
a conspiracy to kill me, but

it’s OK.
I welcome them home
to party close-up with me
because they will give me
an honorable death
with shortness of breath, but
they were the only ones
I truly loved to play with.

Truly, There is a Façade

Oh F***β00*,
“you were always on my mind,”
Willie said and…
I just got my second “you-know-what”

I’m hoping to avoid notices, and
cens**ship. But I’m

consulting with Zorro about
sartorial aspects.

He’s concerned that
they make his trademark “m***”
you-know-where in the people’s paradise.

But it’s OK because
he supports the preservation
of hippos

The preservation of children —
not so much.

UFOs Again, yeah, so, you do have modern full color cameras recording without blurry photos to show, right?

    Here we go again waiting to see pigs fly. This is not the 1950’s. There are people with professional sophisticated cameras that take full size color photographs with depth of field and clear focus who are present on nuclear weapons bases and on air craft carriers who could take obvious clear photos if they wanted and were allowed to do.
    You’ve got to be kidding. Again with the blurry photos and giggling. This is not going to be an honest reveal is it? Hey look, a guy is standing on an aircraft carrier when a large craft is buzzing the ship and nobody has a decent camera? Really?
    And you say that UFOs are hovering over nuclear missile bases daily for years and yet no one on a base has a decent camera?
    Anyone want to bet that the coming reveal is going to be anything other than fuzzy photos and vague platitudes.

Nothing

This loneliness
is my agony

I always meant
to touch you kindly

to bring to you
what I knew about
soothing the aimless, and
drinking from the well
to be well
to be quenched, but

I have no experience
of wisdom to share, because
I have been wandering
in a place without you
where I am discouraged
and I don’t think anyone else
will ever love me as if they knew that
loneliness is agony.

A Spell

The last time a read your
comfort post, I had
a warm feeling,
didn’t feel alone,
imagined you
in the flesh
like a word
could blossom,
and I could have
the whimsy word
on my skin like
a spelling magic.

What’s In A Name

Oh girl I miss you so much
and I remember when I
called you baby, and
we cuddled beyond
the lust, but

I must say the words
have changed and I
don’t know what
women want to be
called

Oh my dear
intimate friend,
I love you by
any name, and
tell me if
you will greet me
at the crossroads
where I will sing
like the creature of
our dreams in the
fire of the unnamed passion

but I am not a dragon,
baby

Some say Randi Weingarten Is Not Political; Ibi erit satura est scriptor nasus et sale, si emptorem, sapit.

The Souls of Children Died in the Wine Garden (Draft 2)

Some weathered the year,
some did not. A change
of climate for pedagogy.

Rare like rain in the desert,
remote learning precipitated
a few child suicides, a dessert
for the statistical fruit of science.

It was a year when
the snide videos
proved the teachers
hated the parents

It was a year of ominous noise,
a year of doom dust and ash,
a smell of sulfur when crows
pecked at eggs and left them

Coming from the ground, far under,
were odd humming and rumbling sounds

those evil sounds were underground like
a swarm of crashing freight trains deep below
like gigantic humming birds as big
flapping their wings like manic dinosaurs
and like angry moose fighting with the Devil

It was a year of strangeness
and a year of hope.

But there were two omens. One was

the cicadas came twice in one year —
once in Spring and once in Fall

the other was that
the rare biting incidents in pre-school
became numerous in the upper grades.

Well actually, more than two omens.
And the mayor was perturbed by
the rumors of
real werewolves, zombies
and Devil worshipers
after the theater re-opened.

Maybe those were not omens
but hysteria or something.

The snide videos
proved the teachers
hated the parents, and
especially me.
Board meetings were
pointless and strange.

When
I caught Mary’s teacher
berating my child
in a zoom thing,
I began my research
on a curse. Nothing
was off the table

My child was always odd
and the teachers hated her
even after her death.

When the UFOs came
and abducted a teacher
we, parents, were not concerned.

Picking off the teachers
of the Wine Garden club
was a good thing:
the aliens had a purpose
for them: needed them
for a scientific study.

The parents
were not concerned about that;
there were more important things.

School resumed in the fall
five days-a-week
full time, but
it was too late
for Mary

Mary had had a little lamb.

In the fall
I visited Mary
in the cemetery, but
her grave was disturbed

When Mrs. Marxwagon,
Mary’s teacher, said
she would sue me
for placing a curse on her,
I laughed; that’s not
a legal term.

I told her
if the lamb bothers you,
eat it.

The Center for Propaganda Control (CPC)
said the outbreak looked like rabies.

I don’t know why
I wished Mary would be alive —
I thought it was a harmless thought
and the visions were delusional from grief.

The nightmare was so real, and
and I woke up hearing myself scream —
I saw Mary walking to school, and
she said, Mommy, I failed the test.

I ignored the humming sound
and I got into my car, but
the lightning was so angry, and
the rain was intense, the cicadas
rose from the ground and the birds
ate as many as they could, and there
was the stench of death and decay
in the eerie fear invading my soul;
in panic I drove to school to see
if Mary was there and desperately
I loved her still, and thought perhaps
like a miracle she was alive, and
passing her tests like
a good little girl
so precious and pure

The authorities were busy
in the front of the school
surrounding the UFOs

I climbed a tree and
jumped onto
the roof of the school.
The cicadas were
crawling all over, and
the birds were swarming.

I came down the stairs.
I saw Mary.

She and the other
dead children
were eating their teachers.

It was a good day.
The authorities
stormed the building.

The aliens vaporized them all.
I suppose they’re friendly, because
they follow the pedantic science.

The Souls of Children Died in the Wine Garden(Draft 0)

The snide videos
proved the teachers
hated the parents, and
especially me

When
I caught Mary’s teacher
berating my child
in a zoom thing,
I began my research
on a curse.

My child was always odd
and the teachers hated her.

When the UFOs came
and abducted a teacher
we, parents, were not concerned.

Picking off the teachers
of the Wine Garden club
was a good thing:
the aliens had a purpose
for them: needed them
for a scientific study.

The parents
were not concerned about that;
there were more important things.

School resumed in the fall
five days-a-week
full time, but
it was too late
for Mary

Mary had had a little lamb.

In the fall
I visited Mary
in the cemetary, but
her grave was disturbed

When Mrs. Marxwagon,
Mary’s teacher, said
she would sue me
for placing a curse on her,
I laughed; that’s not
a legal term.

I told her
if the lamb bothers you,
eat it.

The Center for Propaganda Control (CPC)
said the outbreak looked like rabies.

I don’t know why
I wished Mary would be alive —
I thought it was a harmless thought
and the visions were delusional from grief.

The nightmare was so real, and
and I woke up hearing myself scream —
I saw Mary walking to school, and
she said, Mommy, I failed the test.

I got in my car, but
the lightning was so angry, and
the rain was intense, the circadas
rose from the ground and the birds
ate as many as they could, and there
was the stench of death and decay
in the eerie fear invading my soul;
in panic I drove to school to see
if Mary was there and desparately
I loved her still, and thought perhaps
like a miracle she was alive, and
passing her tests like
a good little girl
so precious and pure

The authorities were busy
in the front of the school
surrounding the UFOs

I climbed a tree and
jumped onto
the roof of the school.
The cicadas were
crawling all over, and
the birds were swarming.

I came down the stairs.
I saw Mary.

She and the other
dead children
were eating their teachers.

It was a good day.
The authorities
stormed the building.

The aliens vaporized them all.
I suppose they’re friendly.