OMG Physical Paper Book. I didn’t realize I should have bought a book for all my programs because they take away online help after awhile when you become obsolete

OMG Physical Paper Book. I didn’t realize I should have bought a book for all my programs because they take away online help after awhile when you become obsolete

The customer is the enemy now seems to be the current business mileau. How can we con them and make them dependent on us. When I grew up, the slogan used to be “the customer is always right.” I should have stuck with the old ways which is that I always relied on a good instruction book for every device. Oh hell, I suppose now I’ll have to go on-line to find out how to use my toaster and if I have an old model, they will have withdrawn my on-line instruction book. Soon you’ll buy a toaster and it will say, “I can’t make toast because I’m waiting for the update; please don’t turn me off. If there’s a fire, go to the on-line help section or search on Doodle for “burnt toast.” Geez, I have a few paper-back instruction books, but nowadays books are too expensive. Yikes, I have an old psychology text book where the price is handwritten on the inner cover: $7.25, 411 pages, copyright 1954(but I bought it in the 1970’s?). Now they want about $200 for the book.

Yeah sure, I struggled with hard copy instruction books BUT on-line instruction, as hard as it is to believe, is ten times worse than instruction from a barking dog even if it’s “Lassie” and at least it could summon help for poor Timmy. (Oh geez, I just realized that the old TV show and Charles Dickens used the name Timmy for a poor little boy in danger.)

The High Price of Gasoline Again: Poetry Edit.

A milder version of this called “Gas Station Owner” was written around July 10, 2008.

Today’s Edit (2022). I don’t know if this version is better or worse.

The Price a Gas Station Owner Pays

The price is set from on high;
the price is too high,
yeah, we know, we know.

The detectives took the swabs,
made the photos. We’re
allowed to wash the blood
off the gas pumps

The Newspaper gleefully
took pictures of the death graffiti,

graffiti to dishonor my wife.
Art critics called it “price gouger”:
daring neo-Marxist street art

Gasoline only earned us hate.
The kid hadn’t come in,
took the day off (too scared)

Cookies and crackers
made us
a little money —
customers think
we’re evil rich

The kid
didn’t show up for the night shift.

My wife took over:
thought her smile
would have to work
like a lightning sale
on an angel food cake,
potato chips, and special
candles for a birthday sale
soda

The detectives took the swabs
made the crime scene photos,
took samples. I’m
allowed to wash her blood
off the gas pumps

Put up a sign:
closed for
the high price of murder

The Medical Examiner soon
will make her into objet d’art pieces
until then…tragic drama

I can’t  bury her
until the critics name her,
a mob condemns her, and

I can’t bury her
until they pry me off her corpse
and close more oil wells for the cause

Past Best Free Verse Poems From Poets About to Die on Aug 2, 2022 at 11:23 from a Meteor Strike

Who Is the Best Contemporary Poet?

    The establishment can make you nauseous with its ingrained choices, and when it comes to Free Verse one might be forgiven if they are sick of hearing Walt Whitman, father of free verse. Not all fathers are good. Heaven help us from the children.

    In the 21st Century there are few who are readable without a special advanced translator guru. For the bulk of poems you need to spend thousands of dollars for a college course that will teach you how to analyze a poem under duress and torture. After completing a course of study, you will have learned the art of desensitizing yourself to the agony and pain of reading a poem.

    In today’s world it is still true that Poets are judged by how much pain and confusion they can evoke in a reader, or how well they make the most trivial banality risible.

And to the drum roll

If one searches hard enough through the galaxies one can sometimes circle back to Earth and find something tolerable for the layman. We present for the first decade of the Twenty-First Century 10 poems from Douglas Gilbert:

These were circa 2005

Watching Kindness

I saw you kneel
to heal a boy
who dropped a toy
smithereens a laugh
when your blessing
was an invention
of love new to him
who instantly lost
attachments to pretensions
pretending to be brave, but
became heroic
to embrace you as angel

I see
as did he
and this is
why I love you,
will share you
with the world

Grand ecstasy
when you come home
to me alone

I give you my awards
my affection tonight, but
I will gladly

have you leave
in the morning, for
I am proud to be
a friend to the angel who will
wash the world with my happy tears
and I fear not because

you will return to
the humble blessings
of me
—————————————————

We Are Glowing

From the journey of a dream
I awoke happy, enveloped in you
under covers

Enraptured in the blankets
of home
with you
of you

Our embrace is
the brightness
of us
with us

We are
the morning together
together in love

An awakening
is here to be
for real
at home

peaceful passion
satisfaction day

not dreaming
but being

in the lightness
of us
with us

we are warm
being the morning sun,
like banners waving
playfully above
the river of Love

extremely rippling,
our streaming
child to the river

Ripples of the day
we stream
like banners waving
playfully above
a gentle brook
child to the stream

The child’s babble
joyful enough
to be a gurgle
in a float-along morning

We splash along
embraced
by immersion
and the kiss of the day
fantastic
better than a dream
———————————————————

You In Me

I woke up to my
longing for you; coffee
bit my dream
I stirred your cream

If I dress to seek you
will I know where
passion gallivants

You haunt me with
your many haunts. I
feel a phantom kiss
and miss the bliss from
flesh and ardor, belief bones
troubles massaged in a love whisper,
soothing music
melodic compassion

I am out to find you
driven like the mating birds;
walking, I hear the coos
but let them fly unknowing
for I have a gift for us:
wait ’til you
see me smile
everywhere I know you

Still Rapid

For me I flushed, a
cheeky glow on me, when
I heard her
laughing in my heart
her oxygen in my
hemoglobin sanguine

Tincture of joy upon my skin
I touched her touch like lunch
of peppers and cherry ducks
in a row of charms
easy to cast as
fruit falling ripe
after blossoms bloom

Vitamin delight I made
floating on her river
tanning, burning in her light

We kissed our meal
to drink the day
a splash of love
in rapids

Throbbing In Crevices

Though there’s little food in Sugar Ditch
the rabbit hoped to hop from me
a foolish-stewing-hopeless creature,
who’d let luck go where
fecal creeks don’t drown
perfumed hope

Broken down in Sugar Ditch
waiting for a scholarship
I was wheeling like
lightning struck me down

The documentary camera came
just before a thunder wash,
saw the open sewer
that’s home to family shame

I pulled out my crying rag
time moaning sack of clothes
and the man heard me sing
while driving lightning roads

Honking horns daring me
to dream away from poverty,
I bent my trumpets to heaven’s ears

But no one told me
evil flies to me
every place I go, and
King Sorrow would reign
over sovereign hopes

I reached the skyscrapers
a tourist of bad timing
had to be the highest
place to see heaven
aside from you

After lightning struck this New York
I was lying under debris,
my quilted sorrow bristling
with cast off bricks

Mortar thoughts around me
being so damn mortal, I
could be thundered away
to the heavenly scene

But a steam pipe was hissing
while lifted stones flew away
like missiles whistling
choruses of dusty blues

Jaws of life jacking time
they slid my body out in time
let the building collapse on through

Thought I heard,
old Joplin singin’
more on Earth
will be slapping you
if you
dodge more bullets
from another fool

And when I sang right out
across the clapping crowds,
my best laid blues
went right to you,
New York girl
in a rabbit hat

Oh magical girl,
my new love,
you kissed the breeze
made illusions
fondle my wishes

Now I dream of you deeply:
my salvation laughing everywhere

To whinny, my dream horse gallops, your
giggling jiggling in my cortex,
cerebral fondness hunting for you
in pulsing fibers
embedded in desire
throbbing in crevices
of nerve-cell books,
passions hiding in no man’s nook.

You journey through my mind,
scampering mind dancer,
doing wild animal tangos. I embrace

your beauty in the hunt
to capture your essence;
my dogs sense your scent,
a presence so foxy,
they transcend all knowing
rockin’ and rollin’ in serotonin.

I have traveled into you–
touch me there
where thoughts are real
and lightning tingles fine:
hats off to
everlasting good times

When I awake to you
I am in heaven
——————————————————

Sax Piano Bird

If you will play
I will kiss your tune lips
’cause anything goes when
slinking down your keyboard
tickling doleful note doodles
plinking your chords
caressing pianissimo
bopping forte, top a’ ya board,
chording love accolades
staying for improvisations
when cool mistys get hot. I shall be cool

when you transpose the glory
keys to high toned harmony
that sees me exposed
with whistling kisses blown
all sax-ified, but that’ll
be after a race. Y’ know

it was a mystery that
birds of a feather could
get the winner’s name
from the horse’s
mouthwash, but
I heard them say

she plays with her pet cockatoo
at the piano bar
down by the racetrack
at the end of the race, and
I saw you

The bird said, “Leave a tip”
I said, “Baby Needs Shoes to win,
place, or show me a new tune”

She nagged the feathers off it
to snatch bills
out of patrons’ hands

After she played with her cockatoo
I tipped it into a snifter
hoping she’d play with me
’cause I bet on the nag, then
I said
to the showers

I said
To install the clean
in a froth of warmth
above a soapy love,
join me in the shower stall
by the steamy wall
where flights of fancy
are never scrubbed. If you will,

then I, with fragrant soap,
will wash in tribute
the toe that tested my waters,
cleansing the foot feats that two-stepped
when I was a mere calf
and you were knee high
to a love
like a soap opera. Sing

in the shower from your diaphragm
where no melting soap is barred
while I swoosh below your breasts
with swirling helicopter hands
taking off with haste
as whirlybirds land
on nipple pads. When you say

taxi to the terminal
the refueling hose can dock
and the passengers can be served
hot blessings, but remember
the fifth race is soon,
time to place bets
by the river
on the sailboats, although
we could check out
the entries
swimming in the
racing waters

where in trepidation
you can put a toe
in the water of my soul
as I kiss it as
I would a child’s boo-boo

offering you
a future, a splash
of my essence; I
breathe your perfume
a cherry-flavored love

You undress in my river
and I kiss your thigh
in baptism before lips

Like a mallard
I swim aside,
a breast in hand
and hand in bush

All goes swimmingly,
as I reminisce
first kisses
raising my mast,
sailing our ship, and
now anything goes
even past
the sunset,
in moonlit tunes
splashed across the stars
————————————————————

Backward Train

I’m fond of her biases because
she notices differences
like the eye on the back of my head

She’s the only one who
ever came onboard my train
not thinking it impolite
if I stood with my back to her
while I shoveled coal, and
still watched her front.

She did insist once
to stand in front of the furnace, but
we did take a vote to see if
we’d face to embrace–
it was four eyes to one
the ayes had it — although,
I did turn my gun backward once
shooting a bandit thus
keeping the cuddle just
so moving along
the track and train, but

next time I think
I’ll let her take the gun
in her third hand
——————————————————————

Diane Lobbies

She could not cook
what I brought to the nest,
couldn’t cook
lively recipes,
offerings too gamy

I thought I was
a bald eagle, but
Diane said to me:

“I lobby for
your oneness with me
with filibusters in thought
to block a vote against

Tempting shame once
I wore my red shoes
and unused womb,
bled red desires, those
messy wants nested with
last straws of perseverance
trinket twigs of yours

Come, Eagle, fly back
with wiggling gifts
to give us our child
our daily bed
sprung below
our spring to life, although

You emulate the hawk
watching for moves
but seeing no detail
gallivanting with all the wrong ladies
scattering lust to those
who would pluck your feathers

I have made you soup
when you were sick partying,
ladled out love gently
warm and spicy

Come back when
your peacock feathers are stripped
your hawkish manners grounded, and
land here in my nest forever”

Diane asks if
I am an albatross,
as if I would know
where to find
gooney blue skies

I offer to tickle her with a feather
and she is pleased that
we are not birds
just strollers into paradise
————————————————————–

Legend Baby

With lost soft hugs
lost pressing kisses
bear hugs,
Melissa is lost
has left me to be
haunted by ghosts
of guilt, of soul
I deny:
J’accuse my dear
you fooled me
against my nature

Oh Melissa, you
cried upon a star,
told me and the night sky
I was the father though
you had many lovers

Because the baby girl made
a lollipop microphone
I knew she’d be a star
a legend in her twinkle,
no end to promise

You were a mother
who watched bear legend TV, liked bears,
believed every myth seen
as cuteness lied and misled. Earnestly I

warned against them.
Listening to me in jest
smiling at me instead
you said
the wild child laughs. I kissed
the one who chuckles,
your baby luck
the one you suckled, but
you are at an end to sanity
your daughter lost
to your foolish love of all.

I changed baby’s diaper once,
watched her take a first step,
a father sharing labors.

But I was fine, I thought
’twasn’t mine in the end, and
though your daughter cried
I would not bare faced cry
for didn’t I say with logic base:
do not feed the bears,
not flour
not flowers
not porridge.
Hungry bears eat babies.

Listening to me in jest
smiling at me instead
the baby was left alone. That’s why

you could not stop screaming
clawing the tree
scratching your own face, why you
threw the empty baby carriage into the river,
childless

Fathers don’t let bears eat their children,
not the one read
“Goldilocks and the Bears” to sleep, but

if this is my dead baby
I will cry tomorrow.
If I were to believe
this baby were mine
I’d be as crazy as you, Melissa.

They were beautiful
and the woods are ugly.
Melissa’s baby, her Myth, and
my feelings are dead
to drift in my fog hiding
howling vain creatures
biting and sucking to leach
the guilt I deny, but
creature forgive me;
give me back my blood
my guilt, before death
makes me ghostly
too pale to love Melissa again.
——————————————————————

Reading Alabama

Jeannie dreamt of cherry blossom times
when falling cherished petals
rode on her shoulders like
dandruff thoughts
of springs past
jumping with him on bikes
pedaling home
to the sitting room
to shared cherries and
dreams of travel assumed
with sitars on their knees
playing hozannas from the West
like gospel cries
by the Alabama mist they’d seen
kissing faux banjos

1. Kindness

2. We Are Glowing

3. You In Me

(It says link color is not dark enough even though it’s the default link color, but it won’t let you change the link color unless you use the CLASSIC EDITOR but that’s hard to use with the color chart. Maybe need to start it in classic and then change color in the given code?)

(4)Still Rapid

(5)Throbbing In Crevices

(6)Sax Piano Bird

(7)Backward Train

(8)Diane Lobbies

(9)Legend Baby

(10)Reading Alabama

On Poetry: U Send Abbreviated Text Msg’s To My Sorrow

Brevity Can Lose the Profound in the Briefs and Undercurrents

There are dust devils in the archives

Perhaps there’s something worth re-reading. I don’t know. It sounded good in the olde days and now I’m not so sure anymore. It’s like stale beer.

“Champagne!”  Alice said. “Everything goes with Champagne.”

Easy for her to say, but it can lead to drunken blather without much meaning.

Text messages are too short, and U use abbreviations and a limited vocabulary to tame sorrow

“Use me,” lost words say. “Look me up some time, because I’m lost and never heard.”  In the archives, the words rest, but I am restless enough to dust them off here:

I Want My Thousand Words

Maybe I should have met her
on every cherished thought I had

but nocturnal words are fickle
and u don’t know how much i tried

oh don’t scold me if I tell u others
of the old words that defy

Look up,
look it up:
those lucubrations

where I studied romance,
but feared to speak out loud
lest a candle be blown out
on a cherished doubtful notion

Maybe I could have known her
with every cherished thought I had

Devotions in motion maybe
are not a type face. I’m
looking it up.

Sometimes she’s in a digital box,
but now I imagine:

Looking up to the sky
she’s running wild style
climbing adventurous trees

Those wild trees uproot themselves
just to make a statement
even if they fall short of running
but, of course, it’s not recommended

Yes, trees can branch
that’s their slow motion adventure
when they must wait for seed carriers
that bear their fruit

Maybe she’ll come down
for our favorite wine
and a dithyramb
about ecstasy
and leafy love

I have seen her dither,
climb a tree in bloom
speak with flirty birds
and have a word with me
that is a subtle twitter bark
surrounding like a hug wood
a play with banter-word chirps

But wilder is better because
even in flighty tedium whims
she knows the prolix eagles
who extend their wings
and cry for hours when
she speaks their language

With a waiting twiddle I wanted much
to touch her since then, and
there is a flourish in melody
that accompanies the twaddle
of the giddy blooming of me
I hear when I think
of her as branching music
reaching for the sky

I know she’s reading
between tweets
sneaking a look at
longer things like me
world famous innuendo

Hello, I can see you dear and
I have words to sing.
Step away from the box screen
and meet me in the forest;
there’s a long body
of conversation
of pleasure

I want my thousand words,
don’t want to abbreviate you
or shorten the picture

I don’t see you
as a u or pic, and
I’m so sorry u
were picked on

I will file a brief
in the highest court for
je ne sais quoi appeals, and
run rampant on ramparts of verbosity
because at least prolixity has a tongue
a lingua frank and a lingua true
not politically corrected scrub
but where I could be a tree
and you could be a bush
in the metaphor field
away from the digital box
and on to lots

short enough for ya’
u,… Oh, I would ask
your real name, but
I forgot mine

Maybe if I’ve lost my mind,
all these palpitations I have known
will be smoothed by mellifluous U when
your dear ear is on my flighty heart, and
frenzied eagles clap their wings

How To Write A Free Verse Poem, Part 1 (Draft 1)

How to Spawn Poetry Like Deviled Eggs With Caviar

    Writing poetry is impossible if you want to be stylish with ambiguity or vagueness. True poetry does not flow out from pen or sword or computer. It is a thing that escapes on the backs of creatures who run wild or sleep on a couch, but is it encapsulated like a virus.
    No, there is a poetic skin on its matrix of thought that is entangled in emotion, and sometimes the creature is injured and bleeds. It growls and purrs but often bleats from the woolly heart of chaos, bleats on the cold beachhead at dawn, setting patterns in the crystalline sands of time. Mello, it retreats to the meadow, becomes a lamb. Is there a shepherd or a wolf about, or is it a wolf?
    Behold the blurted poem — record it. But if you must write in blood, write in ketchup, because it tastes better and bleeding out tends to stop a poem. Remember, in greasing the way, French fries are deep fried, shallots are shallow. We mostly have onions.
    Yes, poetry is impossible. Poetry exudes from the pores like sweat and oil. It stains the fabric of exhibition. So then some items to consider:

1. Don’t read too much recommended poetry. Poetic poisoning can seize you eruditely, taking you, clouded in pristine smoke, to a land of oxymoronic sweet stench, an un-pop literature den of denizens pontificating with lit cigar wands waving towards an unholy upper atmosphere, a heavenly hell with cirrus puffs, those feathery clouds with dandruff flakes.

2. Write from the middle. When you start to write a poem, you’re in the middle of something. You’re going to have to write an introduction so somebody will know why rambling through a forest of ideas doesn’t make birds fall out of the trees from boredom or from being frightened by a crazy person invading their territory. So, when you start a poem from a notion, it’s likely that it’s going to wind up being a pitch in the middle of a game — you’re going to need a new beginning and a new end. By the way, as I started to imply, nature poems usually don’t work out. When I’m tempted to try that stale genre I get my ideas from the horse’s mouth or in this case, from a little bird. [Idiom alert: “from the horse’s mouth,” and “a little bird told me”].

Avian Translation

I’ve always wanted to speak
to the smaller birds, so
I’ve done a lot of weird whistling

Sometimes a little birdie cocks her head
and tries to see if I’m a threat or a bird benevolent,
but I’m neither a mate nor predator, just
a conversationalist

So I whistle something which means
“give tomatoes to Owls, like Caesar.”

And she says, “Huh, what? And
for a Human you don’t look so bad
even though you have no feathers.
Why is it that you can’t fly?
It’s so easy.”

And I said, “Why is it that
you can’t speak and write novels.”

“Well, then,” it said, “have you written one lately?”

And I said, “Um, no…”

And it said in a way that I think it meant kindly that
I was a birdbrain.

3.     So you have a great idea or theme and you’ve written a line. Now you think the next (or alternate line) must rhyme. Sometimes none of the rhyming words make sense with your theme, and all the synonyms you might try to substitute for the first line don’t really express what you want to say. Despair?
    Oh, to rhyme is divine, sometimes, if you can keep your original thought, or re-do the whole poem to match the new theme that’s been implied by your quirky synonym choice. I mean, you have a poem about a “pest” and it could be about a guest or an insect or both, but you definitely didn’t intend it to take place in Budapest, or on top of Mount Everest, and a cockroach doesn’t have a “breast.” So you have to decide whether to stay true to your original idea or go with Kafka, or go with God, or go to an inquest for a dead metaphor, or don’t rhyme.

4. Yes, you do have to edit. Put it aside and try to forget about it. Come back using your best method acting skills and pretend you’re another person. This other person should be able to read and understand the poem. If the meaning is obscure, you have a problem. Perhaps you can add an explanatory phrase, or add a dramatic interlude. If you fade back into yourself, you might find yourself saying, “What was I thinking?” Maybe you can answer yourself or look for your scrap notes.

5. Make scrap notes.

6. Develop the proper attitude. I sometimes do OK, but

    I Hate Poetry

I claw through words
growling to rip the meat,
add a soupçon to
a consommé, but
don’t make me
eat my soup in the woods

Like a bear
I hate poetry, because
it’s senseless to be dense
letting forest rangers throw
huh words in a campfire.

What would I want with dense description:
it makes my soup too thick, and
if I burn my tongue,
emotions will be hot
without corn indigestible.

Don’t make me
eat in the woods. My
kingdom for a kitchen table.

Can I just have my
Parmesan cheese, nutty and fine,
not looking for
patterns
in the wallpaper, equations for space travel,
’cause I can stare beyond the stars
some other time
after I’ve had
my soup with a spoon that need not be silver like the moon,
a simple spoon, only

large enough not to stew me,
not vaporize ineffables like vegetables
7. You may find it odd that you’re struggling to write a poem when everyone else is doing it easily. After all, a herd of sheep can arrange themselves in the form of a poem, and any boy can guard them from the wolves of criticism. You have probably been taught the Aesop fable, “The Boy Who Cried Wolf.” Actually, something over the years has been lost in translation. It originally was called, “The Boy Who Cried Run-on Sentence.” Well, not every very long sentence, embellished with care, is improper, and such a complex sentence, running naked through the streets like Archimedes, can be used to trigger thoughts for a poem. A main clause just needs a subject and a verb. Dependent clauses run wild. Put them together. It’s not always true that sentences are runaways. These sentences, gracefully elaborated, embellished with the sounds of glorious triumph, with cacophonous instruments of drunken loquacious musicians strung out on their heart strings, like birds and cats who are mine, playing around with joyful noise, making every trill a wave to glory, oceanic, are not runaways, being ensconced in dreams, and pray tell, if I may continue, the words of the angels are infinite and concise like love that sings forever charming and as elaborate as is a sentence to joy, many times re-phrased, re-claused like a Santa Clause whose mythology endures way beyond his run away sleigh, bells of grace reverberating with every sentence pronounced by judges and supplicants gracefully joined in symphony, in sympathy, in empathy, and joined on every path to any pathy even daffy, because the complex can be simply wonderful like you all who indulge the marathon run into oblivion with a billion words and who pause to hear my running word.

Sentences

Sentences, gracefully elaborated, embellished
with the sounds of glorious triumph, with
cacophonous instruments of
drunken loquacious musicians
strung out on their heart strings,

like birds and cats who are mine,
playing around with joyful noise,
gracefully making every trill
a wave to glory, oceanic, are not runaways,
being ensconced in dreams, and
pray tell, if I may continue,

the words of the angels are infinite and
concise like love that sings forever charming
as elaborate as is a sentence to joy,
many times re-phrased, re-claused like a
Santa Clause whose mythology endures
way beyond his run away sleigh,
bells of grace reverberating with every sentence
pronounced by judges and supplicants
gracefully joined in symphony, in sympathy, in empathy,
joined on every path to any pathy even daffy, because
the complex can be simply wonderful like
you all who indulge the marathon run
into oblivion with a billion words and
who pause to hear my running word.

May I write a poem that is like a story or fable?

8.    NO!

    It’s like the children’s game, “Mother, May I,” and you need to get permission from Big Brother or Sister, a Union Leader, the Main Stream Media or Academia, or permission from a proper Party Leader or Intelligence Service like in George Orwell’s “1984” in order to express an unapproved opinion, and even with permission, you’ll probably be erased.

    However, just because everyone is playing a children’s game, that doesn’t mean you have to. Besides, in colloquial English, most people don’t distinguish between “may” and “can.” Anyway, if you are physically able, go ahead and write a “narrative poem.” However, you don’t have to model it after the “Iliad and the Odyssey,” unless you’re writing in Greek. It’s not traditional but you can do it in free verse until it’s squashed or shadow banned.

    Consequently, a fable milieu can be attempted while trying to be a witness to truth.  Sarcasm and satire are handy tools to use while you’re searching for an alternate witness protection program where you can get a new identity. You would need plausible deniability to write something like this:

The Depravity of a Union Teacher

Depravity
would be seen
as unforeseen
consequences:
a union of travesty
gravity
and dirt

The botanist had had a child in school.
Had sad time off; there’d be time too
for the funeral soon. There would be

blood in the kitchen, a kind of
spilled wine in the garden for
teachers of the vineyard who demanded
more whine privilege than little
giggling girls like her Randi
used to be, but the Union

had demanded masked smiles until doom,
more rules for tiny children in a classroom.

The botanist had
more time off from work for the funeral.

Walking in a hellish haze
the botanist felt nauseous
along the way from the smell
of her daughter’s favorite flowers

far afield she wandered
drifting in a fog, in a
random eternal pattern
to reach the ceremony
of the grave; had a thought
(Randi’s vision
made her cry)

She was startled by a reporter. Blurted:
“yes, I am certain that
the teacher is an idiot.

“You want to know? You know…
My little Randi darling flower spirit
was precocious ‘once upon a time’
before a teacher tore her petals off”

This Mom was a little nauseous
smelling her daughter’s favorite flowers
as she walked in a daze remembering

far afield she wandered in a trance
yet jolted by the voice persisting;
replied:

“Yes, I’m sure
it was suicide.
You want to know? You know…
my child vomited in her mask,
and the teacher wouldn’t… (you know)
she came home; said school was fine —
the usual kid denial, and the
counselor said don’t worry

“Yes, you know the story —
report it.”

Far afield she wandered in a trance
yet jolted by the voice persisting; replied
“the nurse said it was nothing”

she smelled the flowers

The reporter fell backwards
when she vomited on him, and
she enabled his fall over
the unmasked cliff
with prejudice.

Startled, she turned around to
walk home, so as to smell
the corpse flower, and to
join her daughter with a plunge of
a kitchen knife into her own heart.

Actually, as poetry, if you examine it, you’ll find some partial internal rhymes such as here:

Walking in a hellish haze
the botanist felt nauseous
along the way from the smell
of her daughter’s favorite flowers

and the “el” sound in “felt” and “smell.” Also, if you read it out loud, you’ll hear some rhythm patterns.

A Spoof Introducing An Epic Poem

Investing In the Extraterrestrial Paintcoin

By Douglas Gilbert

Copyright © 2018 Douglas Gilbert

All rights reserved.

ISBN  978-1-387-52268-2

Introduction

It used to be said that gambling was a sin. However, many things nowadays have been legalized. So as they say, let he who is stoned throw the first sin chip card upon the table. Go and be fruitful in the orchard of life.  Have a sip of wine, but don’t invest while driving someone crazy. Find a strategy that’s best for your temperament and skill, but be open-minded.

The best investing strategy to use for mindless speculation is the Frog Coddling Coda Avoidance Tuning (Froccat) method. There’s an old saw that “If you put a frog in boiling water, it’ll jump out, but if you put a frog in cold water and heat it gradually on a low flame, it won’t realize it’s too hot until it’s too late.” So it’s best to throw cold water on everything and not be the frog. But do jump on the Bandwagon before it starts moving.

When you’re first tuning up the instruments on the Bandwagon you always have to look to the sidelines to spot strategic locations where you can jump off into the road or bushes.  Once the campaign starts don’t wait until there’s water under the bridge because that would not be a good jumping off point even with a bungee cord Condordat (BCC) with the authorities. Always remember that apocryphal stories always have a concordance with a frog entry. So when in cold water always take a leap-of-faith (LOF).

Thus, strategic investing requires a LOL LOF Froccat on a hot tin roof, and a happy tune sung like Polonius without a tin ear. So “Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.” (Hamlet Act II Scene II).

The Extraterrestrial Paintcoin is a more artful form of currency than is its digital cousins. Although, it’s oft been said that first cousins jumping on a bandwagon for a hay ride should never marry on a bridge, or never marry while playing bridge whilst singing a happy tune about Hamlet eating cuisses de grenouilles.

What Is the Extraterrestrial Paintcoin?

The Paintcoin is a square book of coded pictures and poems.  It is designed to look like an ordinary Earth-art coffee-table book of no consequence.  However the Extraterrestrials have assigned a monetary value to it that is honored among their compatriots on Earth.

The Origin of the Paintcoin

The Paintcoin emerged in stages in the community of  alien anthropology students living on Earth.  Starting as a joke, it eventually was seen to actually be a practical expedient for commerce among the isolated students who had been given the hardship assignment of studying Earth culture. It was intended to be exchanged among Extraterrestrials only.  It has since become an opportunity for humans.

However, investing in Extraterrestrial Paintcoins is a difficult and dangerous enterprise, but some people thrive on the thrill of the hunt.  If you’re willing to take on enormous risk you can find one of your own to keep or trade.  But what is the source of Paintcoins you might ask. Perhaps a little background is necessary.

There are Extraterrestrial beings with extraordinary powers living on Earth now, but many are hiding in caves in temperate zones, or hiding at camouflaged bases under the South and North Poles. Being away from a distant planet can be lonely, but sometimes they come to the surface to play with soap bubbles.

It’s fun to blow bubbles, and if you blow them at the North Pole, the soap film will freeze into the shape of a permanent globe before it reaches the ground.  Drawing a map on a soap bubble is a little bit more difficult.  With the right kind of paint and quantum-atomic laser tools, a world map can be drawn on the surface of a bubble.  It can identify the location of gold deposits and other precious metals and medals — even a lost Olympic medal or religious icon…

However, the E.T.’s do not consider metals, such as gold, rare or important.  They have perfected the use of other exotic metals in alloys impossible to produce on Earth. These they consider precious.

It’s only recently that I’ve learned that these visitors from Outer Space are finding it difficult to engage in commerce especially among their own compatriots living on Earth, because they are not comfortable using Earth currencies such as the Dollar, or the Euro and have a bias against Gold because it’s not precious on their home planet. As far as the Bit Coin, their fellow travelers could easily hack into the underlying computer system if they wanted to.  It’s been awhile but I think my sources were trustworthy.

A prescient source had revealed to me that they would choose a rare Earth object as a medium of exchange.  I was told that a small number of these objects would be released soon and the value would be determined based on the level of speculation as regulated by the League. It would be legal tender on the home planet for the settlement of all debts accumulated while visiting Earth. In the rare event that Earthlings might acquire one of these objects they would be allowed to redeem them on any Extraterrestrial planet belonging to the League at a rate to be determined by the local jurisdiction. An Earth artisan would be chosen to create such object. It would be a combination of primitive Earth graphics and poetry to avoid suspicion when traded.

Little did I know that I would be appointed their Deputy Varishynahuki.  Well, there is good news and bad news I think. The good news is that I’ve gotten the commission to design the E.T.’s currency on Earth. The Deputy position is sort of like their version of the Treasurer of the United States.

The bad news is that I don’t get paid except in the new currency which I can only use on their home planet or to buy one of their space craft. I think they are a million or so light years away and I suppose I could go there except that I get carsick and seasick.

I suppose it’s an honor except that no human is supposed to take possession of this proposed object except for me. It had been thought that maybe one or two might “accidentally” fall into the hands of an Earthling besides me and be secretly traded. At some point I had thought maybe I could sell mine for some Earthly goods or services.

Now the problem is that I have to find someone who can trade it under my supervision like in the Dutch Tulip mania of 1637, but I’d have to be sure to sell before the crash. Well, I guess then I’d have to get over seasickness. However, it’s already too late to keep control of the situation.

“Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble…” — Shakespeare

Although it is forbidden for Earthlings other than me to have Paintcoins, it appears that an underground trade has begun.  Based on limited data, a Friends-of-Paintcoin (FoP) network would seem to be metastisizing into a pseudo-Tulip-blossoming (ptb).  But based on inside sources the right to validate is assigned according to an intricate system of both Proof-of-Genealogy (PoG) and of Proof-of- encryption-paradigm-competence (PoEPC) tests.

To simplify: The renegades are distributing Paintcoins based on kinship with Extraterrestrials generations ago. Let the alert investor find one of these, and I will try to assist them.  I don’t know how long the elite Extraterrestrials will tolerate this uncouth behavior.  Perhaps they are tacitly accepting the trade to maintain a convenient currency for their expatriate community. But the Extraterrestrials often research Earth literature for clues to human behavior and economics.

Before investing it is best to study economics as seen in fiction.  Once a modicum of understanding is achieved, the hunt to find a copy of the Extraterrestrial Paintcoin can begin if one is brave.  This is not an offer to sell or buy such an illusory object.  Due diligence should be undertaken by prospective hunters, and no action should be taken without consulting with their financial advisors.

For the study of economics, here are some epic poems to ponder:

Epic Poems

Best Free Verse Poems From Contemporary Poets: ” Grandma Knows a Spy from Wuhan “

Free Verse

    Oh no, not free verse. Gosh but, it’s not the end of the world if a poem doesn’t have end rhymes. An internal rhyme can cause just as much mischief if not more. And rhythm(?) — you’re not going to sing it out loud, are you?
    It’s not an ivy down-climbing crime if a poem is not abstract, not obtuse or loosely profound, or if it’s not approved by a fee University.
    Although, an occasional structured poem can occur with special permission and occur with the appropriate poetic license obtained from the secret authorities.

Douglas Gilbert

Wuhan Lab

[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].
    Grandma has a pen-pal who works in the Wuhan Lab who Grandma knew since the girl was a graduate student studying in the US.

Grandma Knows a Spy from Wuhan

In the clearings
hauntings inhere
dear unfinished things

They’ve finished cleaning
the blood off the floor of the salon

Grandma’s voice
screams in the night;
her pen pal is lost, yes

Grandma is dead.
her hair dresser too–
by video two funerals
and the autopsy is done
no toxins of the ordinary kind.

Everyone misses Grandma.
Many knew her faux pas cinema
— been odd times.

Grandma had a Chinese pen pal
a foreign medical student
passing the USMLE
passing the TOEFL and everything.
Her friend’s now a doctor
now a scientist.

Many times
Grandma was down in a funk:
Something about the Great Depression,
the War and the slaughter again.

So many screams in the night:
“Where is my Wuhan doctor girl?”

There is so much beauty yet
in the quixotic world: the
flowers and designs
on the body bags.

Grandma told us
days never come lightly
when the night overwhelms
before the elegant cry

Such beauty in a sad world
my Grandma always said, is
just decoration, and
she favored flower designs
on chic shopping bags

Let the designers rise to the task
to make pretty body bags
to rise to praise, and yea
by the dawn’s surly knights
oh hey can you see our deeds
in the corona of the Sun
particles of sunset and doom.

Everyone misses Grandma.
Many knew of her, some
knew her. It’s been odd times.

Grandma told wild stories.
Very entertaining. She was
not distant ever
regardless of rules

Grandma stabbed herself to death
with a scissor in a beauty salon, and
the owner was shot to death while
grabbing a policeman’s gun.
It’s the usual.

Grandma left me
a stack of papers
from the pal, now a doctor.
Grandma loved
her dear mystery friend
from Wuhan. She claimed
her friend worked in a laboratory.

I have the correspondence
written in Chinese, and
the blacklight she had
asked me to buy for her.

The letters came slowly
sometimes through Hong Kong
and Singapore, but sometimes
through Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan

Grandma was fond
of her Wuhan girl
as she called her.

Just before her death
she reminded me that
it wasn’t important
to read the beautiful
Chinese calligraphy
because it was unimportant

It was important to read
the invisible secret writing
written between the lines.

Read in the dark
she had said.

New letters continued
to come from the
missing Wuhan girl.

I read them in the dark
with the Black Light.

Apparently, Wuhan girl is
patient zero for the world, and
they are hunting for her

They finished cleaning
the blood off the floor of the salon