I Visit the Ut’ishsih People To Explore the Utd’mbts Language (Part 1)

Going to Where Utd’mbts Is Spoken Is a Difficult Journey

    Oddly, I was recently shocked to hear from Utcoozhoo. He wanted me to know that the diaries and blogs* were mostly hype and that neither he nor Naztko or Zawmb’yee were dead. He said that actually there was a truce between the modernest reformers and the traditionalists of Naztko.
    He said I could come and visit the caves anytime to do my research, and my credentials as Kvizee Doug were still valid and there would be no diplomatic problems — no need for a passport or such.
    A few days ago, I had received a formal invitation to come, and then I was very nervous and embarrassed because I hadn’t really prepared anything. My friend Zawmb’yee Nuje was a long time apprentice to Utcoozhoo and she learned all aspects of the Utd’mbts language the formal way through deep meditation. But she is very busy right now, being the temporary High Priestess and the equivalent of what we would call “President” and head of the ruling council. I was very anxious because I think they would be disappointed and angry that I’ve only so far started on a hybrid approach using English tenses and fonts attached to Utd’mbts concepts. I’m no where near any formal translation into English. I’m delaying any formal transliteration scheme because there are no actual English equivalents, but I’m going to use temporary labels. An Utd’mbts conversation is more like what you feel and experience rather than any sound or thought triggers in themselves. It’s more like talking with hints and suggestions.
    Well, I took the Long Island Rail Road so I could get to Manhattan, New York City. Crime is out of control on the subway, so I had decided to take a long walk to Utcoozhoo’s secret apartment building. It’s actually just a front. There’s a doorman, and a backup security force, but the building is actually empty. They have actors going in and out just to make it look normal.
    I had rested in the waiting room at Penn Station, deciding to read before walking to the secret apartment building. Zawmb’yee and I used to live in the building, and I remembered that she once wrote a poem about one of our long walks from the building to Central Park. I had a copy of it in my pocket:

   Walking with Doug
    by Zawmb’yee Nuje

On a sunny sign day across the street
the sign said WALK ye
carefully, and we did
across the street into honking,
dodging the cars that trapped themselves
in intersections at change of light, we
swirling about a hot dog stand line, and
pushing our way where
pedestrian streams flowed
our way towards the park

I think we passed the building
with trees on every terrace, and
the buses faced us at every stop
their unloading commotions, their
boarding confused hordes
looking for cards and change

But mostly I didn’t notice if
there were gems in the din, or
new fashions in the store windows, no, mostly,
I listened to the music of Doug’s chatter because
I love the sound of his voice

it comforts me when I hear as I laugh
the song of his voice turning tender, and
I know he loves to be with me

when my word of acknowledgment
makes him smile and pause, I
know he loves me like the humming bird
loves the flower however fast the flutter of his wings
(but I would tell him he’s like a lion), and
I think perhaps I dress to be his nectar

Doug has seen my paint box and asks:
Could this be a Phtalocyanine Blue sky?

‘Huh what’ I wonder, an odd fact
could break a romantic spell
oh well, I laugh

He says, I mean:
it seems like a god has
lent you his brushes, and
you’ve painted my sky. Is it you
who paints my world?

No, I say, it is you who
shines on my tears, penetrates
the rainbow of my feelings and I show you
the canvas of the world as I see it. I look
in your eyes and pray they will see
every color that makes you happy and
if I would be on your palette, brush me

His hand brushed my cheek and touched my lips, but
we collided with a passerby who said, “Idiots!”
But we are not fools to be in love
flowing and in tune with a romantic moment

Doug kissed my hand and
we crashed into a hot dog stand

Doug said we’ll take two with sauerkraut.
Yes, two to go with the day.

    After I finished reading it, I went upstairs to 34th street, east to Fifth Avenue, and then walked briskly updown and over to Utcoozhoo’s place. Everybody recognized me so there were no problems and I went straight up to my old apartment.
    I didn’t stay long. I just had a quick snack of left-over eggplant Parmesan with sardines, anchovies, and cherries. I locked up quickly and went back to the elevator which was still on my floor (it’s always there because I’m the only one who lives in the building).
    Entering the elevator, I faced front and after the doors closed, I pushed STOP. On the right wall is a emergency door that leads into a special shaft that has a manually operated rope and pulley elevator so power is never a problem. But anyway, that’s not it.
    The left wall is hinged at the bottom, and has latches at the top. It’s a little tricky but you just have to find the lever that releases the latches.
    I went up to the wall, released the latches, pushed hard and ran backwards against the other wall as the left wall went crashing down as it’s supposed to. If you don’t run backwards you fall on your face.
    The wall fell and became a platform. Straight ahead was the end car of a subway train. I walked out onto the platform, pushed the handle on the door down and went through the door. The car was set up like a living room with a couch and a table. I sat on the couch. I pushed Q1. The car accelerated smoothly to a moderately slow steady speed. It followed a downward spiral inside the building. I looked out the window, but didn’t see anything except a narrow curved ledge. I could feel the continuous turning of the train, and the downward tilt. It was still circling around inside the building walls until it could reach the basement level where it would proceed into the underground bedrock below the building. After I had just gotten used to all of the turning and tilting, there was a sudden change like I had just reached the top of a basement roller coaster and I was about to take the downward plunge.
    And then, it almost felt like free fall, and I was glad I wasn’t drinking any coffee. Just as I adjusted to the fall, the train slowed and leveled off. Then there was a buzzing sound. It was the five minute warning. I went over to the forward-facing G-posh chairs. I put on the harness. It was like in a jet plane’s cockpit.
    The train took off like a jet and I got pushed back like I weighed a ton — I thought I was going to get crushed. The train seemed to stop suddenly and I got bruised by the belt. The side doors opened.
    Utcoozhoo was waiting. This way, he said, and we walked into the sacred corridor.
    ~ NEXT: Utcoozhoo and I discuss the Utd’mbts language.
*Douglas Gilbert, ebook: The Blog That Would Destroy the World,(Amazon: ASIN ‏ : ‎ B08L1CR3Z4 ), 2019,  ISBN 978-1-329-90425-5

How To Write Free Verse Poetry in 11+ Easy Steps ?

How to Spawn Poetry Like Deviled Eggs With Caviar in 10 Elephant Steps

    If you’re going to write poetry, please, for the sake of the human race and for the comfort of literate mammals, or those read to, don’t write about what you know, even if you’re a Rocket Scientist. Nota bene (N.B.), a Rocket Scientist must know higher and higher advanced mathematics, and although there is poetic charm in differential equations, the mythology of the moon will be more poetic for a few more years.

The Hummingbird Sings the π Song

Running in circles
in a dream about π
I traveled to
the hummingbird muse,

she among
banana peels and fruit flies,
3 meters from hiding places
in elm, mulberry, and willow
that she

might indeed feed
on flowers after
our magic hour.

Her fluttering wings
murmured a song for me
an answer to a question
I hadn’t yet asked.

“How big is π ” I asked.

She stood a moment:
convulsed two wings
oddly flat and still like
outstretched hands

Almost like a fisherman bragging:

Oh! I said.
But that’s four centimeters.

After a flutter
she stood again:

three centimeters.

Well then I’ll
flutter a song
I call:
Too Big Too Small:
it starts loud and fades away, and
you must tell me when to stop
when I’ve shown you what you want.

How will I know?

It’s your dream
so you’ll know.

Hurruph gee
I murmur
many times
though the song
is beautiful


It’s fading, and then…
Hmm, I say


The wings were stretched
a smidgen over three centimeters.
But how much?

I don’t know, she said.
Look and listen to the song.
When the music is in your heart
you’ll hear it in the silence.

    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
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, 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

would be seen
as unforeseen
a union of travesty
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;

“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.

More On Sentences

9.    Oh NO, not that!  Writing clear but wild sentences can set you free from too much abstraction and vagueness like this sentence has had.

    Unfortunately, most native speakers of English were first taught grammar when they were 12, 13, or 14-years-old. For many, those were very bad years and they were much too young to understand grammar. The saving grace, of course, was that since they were already fluent in the language, they had an instinctual grasp of grammar, usually knowing what “sounded right” or “sounded wrong.”  However, knowing how to deliberately construct a wild and proper sentence can be helpful in forming elements of a poem.  Therefore, you should obtain a college-level English style book to refer to (by the way, English is not Latin so you can end a sentence with “to”, contrary to conventional ‘wisdom’).

    While ruminating about the closing of the Grammarland Park where dangling participles grow on trees like money does, pay special attention to subordinate clauses.* One doesn’t always have to abandon sentence structure for the sake of poetic licentiousness, oblivious to mindless rhymes, clueless and obscure, splayed in a littered meadow. No. As they say, “A well placed thought is often dreamed away while driving a car.” Think a moment then.

    Keep in mind, the poetic vehicle doesn’t always have to veer off a mountain road, off a cliff, doesn’t always need to crash into a ravine to gorge on swallowed tears. Indeed no.

   Are you not the Poet-in-chief, commander of the alter-ego subordinates? But do pay special attention to the actors and their lines. Let them have their coffee breaks and line breaks, if necessary.

    After you have chosen your main idea, connectives signal place, time, cause, or qualify the independent clause.  The independent clause can stand alone as a complete sentence — the subordinate clauses (dependent clauses) can not. However, sometimes it’s such a common and subtle subordination that it’s barely noticed. Sometimes the word “that” can be omitted and is understood: He thought the fun would last forever [that omitted]. In poetry, the word “that” can be clumsy and upset an iambic rhythm. But there are more elaborate subordinations to chew on while spitting out “that”.

    Setting the standards, the falling sun castigates the moods, those theses like statues the Muses make, when the day is long, and when the sun’s insidious shadows of fatigue and grief grow in length. But perhaps there is more to life than subordinating conjunctions and adverbs: when, as if, so that, until, since, although, because. Because of this, driving while drunk on chaotic subordination can be dangerous without strategic repeats. More on this later (dropping fragments with love).

    Driving home a point, however, the poetic vehicle may on a dreary day be stuck in a rut.  The car can be broken down near a New Orleans wake, or broken down in Memphis, or in some unknown slum. Worse than the car, even a person can be “broken down” as an extension of the car.

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

Notice the word “waiting”. Participles can be very useful subordinators. They are one of my favorites, but it would be useful to research all of these: (1) Participles, (2) adjectives-with-phrase, (3) appositives, (4) relatives understood, and (5) absolutes. Write a poem, heavy with metaphors, light with joy [2], if it’s to be under the spell of “heavy” and “light,” two adjectives, or do something else:

…I seem to fish by
my taciturn stream
barren of fin splashes
every stone unturned by crab or fish
or by intellect avoiding worms,
appearing to wait for solutions
floating like dead fish,
but my rod is wound up…

    But there’s a thing about buying a poetic license unlike buying a fishing license.  Words can be left out for the sake of rhythm and rhyme if the meaning is still truly an edible fish — at least a rod and line with hook if not bait. In an “appositive”, the words “who is” or “which is” are omitted and understood. “John who is a scoundrel” becomes “John the scoundrel.”  “A heart which is frozen in time cannot love now” becomes “A heart, frozen in time, cannot love now.”

Write a Coherent Complex Sentence Before Breaking Out Into Poetry

10.    Actually, there are never 10 easy steps to anything. There are always a thousand. But as they say, “The journey of a thousand faux pas begins with the first trip.”

    Well, after all that, one can write in the style of simple sentences especially if one is not writing as one’s complex self. I find it interesting that Jannat grew up in a liberal Western world when Kabul Afghanistan was free, expected to get her College degree, and then lost everything when Kabul fell. She is one who wrote a poem (I was thinking of “Romeo & Juliet,” written here in the voice of Juliet, now “Jannat” […oh, and note the appositives: Rafiq, my friend, my love… Rafiq, my sun, my dove…]):

Rafiq and Jannat1

Rafiq, my friend, my love,
plays are forbidden but
you will write this modest girl
the words for a secret blush on cheeks.

Music is forbidden
but you will dance with me
if shame evaporates like
sweet sweat in
mourning’s dew.

Refiq, my sun, my dove:
a morning will come
when love is due.

Yea verily I insist! Ask:
why dance amidst the mists?

Begone archaic ways, nuanced
rhetorical nits; yes wait for
mysterious replies. I insist

you inhere the day, for
a bird sings and it is you;
a bird is forbidden so it flies

I breathe in joy from the sky
and it is you, blue Rafiq

Hush, I am learning spelling,
oh Rafiq

invoke my name, Jannat, and
you will have my paradise shared

Because I am washing
watermelon seeds and
not eating them.

I am as fertile as a pomegranate
but my juice is forbidden though
it’s sweet and tart like you.

Write my name on a fig leaf, and
soon I will come and kiss it.

But yet rain inheres the clouds
and salt inheres the tears

Spell me. Play me.

Cast me in a play
like a spell.

Quick. Send your Aunt to inspect me.
I will hide my face, and I will
make myself ugly and obedient.
She will report that I am suitable.

I want to be a star for you.
I wonder if Bollywood is too far.
At 4 a.m. I study my physics book
and I know about drama…

Launch us a rocket to the stars
and find me the “Twilight Zone”

But yet rain inheres the clouds
and salt inheres the tears,
the bombs burst in fields

Let me hide us like
a benign subtlety in
the divine flower of my youth

But flower arranging is
a perfume of lies for a girl;
obligations for women,

But yet rain inheres the clouds
and salt inheres the tears, and
bombs burst in fields
so soldiers might plunder

I want to be a star for you.
I wonder if Bollywood is too far
or the North Star too dear.

Rafiq, cast a spell for me.
My father has lost his job.

He is too weak from belief
and I fear

the bombs in the field.
Storms approach our
high mud wall.

Father is insane, and
he will sell me.

Rafiq, are you real?

you inhere the day, for
a bird sings and it is you;
I breathe in a deadly mist,
I listen

* Sheridan Baker, The Complete Stylist (New York, Thomas Y. Crowell Company, 1966),  pp. 99 – 111.

1. :

“Faustti Poems and Jousts”









New Year’s Resolutions in What People are Calling September

Resolutions About Losing Weight

    So it’s time for New Year’s Resolutions. There are the minor ones to get out of the way. The first one is that I’ll stop procrastinating. The second is that I’ll lose weight by throwing out heavy boxes and barbell plates, and any extra sacks of potatoes. All that extra weight is cracking the foundation of the building.

Time Warp

    But before I mention the important ones. Let me just say a word about how weird it seems today. Ever since I left the Rip Van Winkle Inn on New Years morning, it’s been puzzling. Suddenly, all my calendars are wrong, and I have a flood of mail in my boxes. Overnight I’ve grown a long beard. Usually, it takes at least a week to look like I’m growing a beard, and my hands look like they have claws.
    And there’s some sort of practical joke going on every time I mention the day. I mean, it’s January 1, 2022; isn’t it? Well, yeah, I concede maybe it’s January 3rd at most if I had a hangover or something. But it does feel like a Saturday and not a Monday.

Doing a Language Translation

    OK, so my main New Year’s Resolution is to try again to translate the Utd’mbts language into English. I think that this year I’ll postpone deciding on a full transliteration scheme. As a temporary measure I’ll either assign a number to a “word” that I’m working on, or assign an ad hoc stand-in with Latin or Greek letters. I don’t think I’ll use diacritical marks, but maybe I’ll use a color scheme for intensity and direction like a vector. I will postpone dealing with pronunciation because there are so few native speakers available to me except for Zawmb’yee Nuje.
    My friend Zawmb’yee Nuje, the High Priestess of the Ut’ishsih people sometimes speaks Utd’mbts, a difficult language. It uses some dream-like metaphors, but in my last attempt at translation, I did take time to define a few words to sprinkle around. Each word took a page to explain. Each was more like a parable. Now I think I want to actually write the full language in some way. I think I want to start with Lower Utd’mbts which is a simplified version used by children and other learners. Perhaps later I’ll tackle Upper Utd’mbts.
    In Upper Utd’mbts, a word is a trigger for a thought. A stem word represents a concept, a parable, or a story. These would be equivalent to a page or more of English, but it is standardized and memorized by native speakers. Except for the fact that it’s not standardized, in English people sometimes speak in the manner of Utd’mbts by allusion:
    If two speakers are both familiar with a particular movie, they will say that a situation is like a particular scene in that movie. If there were a vocabulary of memorized scenes, it would only require that a standardized set of parameters be selected and memorized so that a prefix and suffix would modify certain aspects without making the word too long. I’ve noticed that a lot of expressions are coined, become fads, but disappear quickly before they becoming codified. Pejoration destroys a lot of expressions that might have been useful if formalized. I heard a speaker talk about ‘climate change’. But I think he is virtue signaling his cry-wolfing like Chicken Little. And I’ve noticed that people in making analogies are ‘World-war-2’–ing their opponents by changing a few parameters of an event. My namesake, Kvizee Doug, wrote about it in his blog-diary novel “The Blog That Would Destroy the World.”

The Ut’ishsih People

    In the Ice Age, they were saved by Extraterrestrials who took them to underground caves where they were given an endless source of energy like an artificial sun but much cooler, and many machines which they didn’t understand but could operate. Over thousands of years, most of the Ut’ishsih people migrated to the “up-top” world and assimilated, forgetting their language.
    Anyway, that didn’t go very far and I didn’t fully flesh out the underlying cited language. My original idea about how it is constructed was that a “word” represents a “concept”, a parable, a story, or a fantasy sequence. I thought that in the learning process, a dictionary would give a page or more of explanation for each word, BUT the “word” was not to be abstracted but should remain as the trigger for an internal thought that was as complete as the original explanation. After learning each meaning through meditation and memorization of the visual fantasy (dream-like and metaphorical), each “word” would remain dense and complete in meaning as if the entire ‘dictionary page’ had flashed by in a second each time the “word” was heard or read.

Starting Over From Scratch

    Now that the Kvizee (Royal Magic Poet) has given up explaining more than a few words scattered about, I’m starting over from scratch. I think I wasted too much time coming up with sounds and transliteration schemes. I thought I had sped up the process a little by choosing exemplar English words, assigning a number for each letter, and considering the concatenation to be a base 26 number that could be transformed to another number that was then changed letter by letter to an Utd’mbts word. If it was unpronounceable I stuck in vowels at a whim. Then I searched on the internet to make sure there was no such word in any other language. Anyway, that was just a grand procrastination to avoid getting to the core issues.
    So now I have a few ideas on how to proceed. I can start with an “exemplar page (250 or more English words) and choose a set of parameter words that would be numbered and reserved as parameters to be used in a prefix for the “word” that the page explains. The “exemplar page” is a concept, parable, or story that is reused with parameter substitution. The way I’m defining it is that the parameters of the prefix are to be substituted for the “exemplar parameters” in the implied page.
    I’m also thinking of various two letter “type” prefixes such as an equivalent to BT(because…therefore). So the structure would be something like BT|parameters|Word|Conclusion-Word|
    Also included in the two letter “type” would be implied progressive and past participles like “-ing” and “ed”. |doing this|Word|Word consequence|. |guided|Word|Word result|.
    I’m delaying transliteration schemes but I’m thinking maybe Latin alphabet for words and Greek for the “type” prefix. Morphemes, gosh, I don’t know: not too many. I want it to look like a relatively moderate sized word despite being dense in meaning and at least having the pretense of being pronounceable. Yeah, I know, Utcoozhoo always said, “Tiglekso!” (don’t worry).
    Just thinking about this is very anxiety producing and discouraging. I had thought that the fictional blog diary of my namesake trying to re-learn the lost language would have pushed me along into making it up as I went along. But that was a fiasco because there were almost no comments.
    I don’t think I want to do an extant language equivalent. I think that we think more in pictures than in sounds, and I don’t think that an intuitive flash or eureka moment involves any sounds. But it is a ‘language’ of some kind, very metaphorical or dream-like.

Have You Made Any New Year’s Resolutions?

If you’ve made a New Year’s Resolution today, how many hours will it take for you to break it?

Is your clock and calendar broken too. The computer says September 27, 2022. But it’s January 1, isn’t it?

When a Story Bleeds Into Poetry

Can a chapter of a book be summarized by Poetry?

    Poetry can allude to books or movies or wars, but it’s a quandary to consider how much the casual reader can know (it’s a running joke in science and math that when one doesn’t want to have to explain an assumption or premise to say, “… as is obvious to the casual observer.” Oh geez, I see now trying to find that expression that I remember it wrong, and they even have an acronym for it: IOTTMCO [Intuitively Obvious To the Most Casual Observer] ).”
    So, anyway, I’ve been looking through the poetry archives and notice a few poems I wrote alluding to “The Blog That Would Destroy the World.* ” Some seem obscure to me now but one of them I think can stand alone. Spoiler alert: I’m going to give a chapter excerpt to show where it came from, but if you want to have an unbiased opinion about whether the poem can stand alone, you can skip it.
    After I was given the honorary title “Kvizee” (Royal Magic Poet), I rode in a limousine with Her Majesty to visit a wheat farm before heading back to the Palace (Kmpamew)

 CHAPTER NINETEEN: Driving Back to the Kmpamew

    by Douglas Gilbert
A Gavicte is like a “Chief-of-staff” or a senior advisor. Aipnijtku is a military rank like “lieutenant”.
    Entry 215: It should have been a relaxing ride but assassins were waiting to attack.

In the morning at the Cottage, Zawmb’yee was all excited, because at the last moment she had invited Naztko to come to the Kmpamew with her for a visit. She was going to ask Naztko to be her Gavicte to replace Gavicte Yenkoi who she no longer trusts — she was sure she’d get a unanimous vote by the Grand Council to appoint him. This way, the two palaces would work together. We had gone in a convoy destined for the Kmpamew. There’s a new secret tunnel that could get us there. But along the way we were going to visit a wheat farm.

    The Jicnie packed up all our things in the first car that we usually take, and Naztko would be in one of the back-up cars. He said he’d talk to us at the farm. He told us that we should enjoy the ride and he’d talk to us then.
    Zawmb’yee and I got all comfortable in the back of the limousine, and off we went.
We passed through the forest on a road that meandered past stands of London Planetree, Black Locust, Black Cherry, and Pin Oak trees, with gentle brooks and creeks speaking in ripples. But we passed them by gracefully around gentle curves and while in the forest were never up a creek, and we brooked no wild things at all like would be done in a forest of dreams.
    In an hour we came into a clearing of meadows and of farm land on a straight road. The clouds had run away and the sun illuminated clearly every blade of grass, every speck in the road.
    Zawmb’yee said, “What a perfect day,” and she looked out on both sides. She pulled down the divider so she could look out the front. “Good morning,” she called out to the driver, “Aipnijtku Yathyaz, how are you?”
Yathyaz said, “I’m fine Your Majesty. Isn’t it a great day?”

“Yes, Aipnijtku Yathyaz, it’s a very clear day — um excellent visibility for driving…”

“Fevepo, pcapdyntpa!”

“Yes,” said Zawmb’yee.

I turned towards Zawmb’yee and said, “What’s that about?”

“Something needs his urgent attention so he asked permission to abruptly end the conversation,” Zawmb’yee whispered to me.

The driver was looking around in all directions. “Tpa!” he shouted.

“What’s that?” I whispered to Zawmb’yee.

“He’s telling the car’s sensors to send out as much data as it can,” whispered Zawmb’yee.

Zawmb’yee looked out the front windshield, “What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“Up ahead, it looks like a porcupine crossing the road.. except that… um”

“Except what?”

“It’s moving robotically and oh-geez-hell-Kievifwa. Watch out!”

What looked like sharp quills or spikes shot out of the creature like missiles and punctured the tires. The car spun out of control, and there were big explosions. The doors of the car were blown off and we were thrown out onto the road. I landed on my knee, Zawmb’yee on her side. Twenty men appeared out of a field of Sunflowers and grabbed Zawmb’yee.

“Let go,” she screamed, “you vgnamo. Help Yathyaz! Help let go, let go!”

    Yathyaz tried to help, but they knocked him down. Zawmb’yee continued to scream and kick. They dragged and carried Zawmb’yee one hundred feet down the road, tied her to a fence, gagged her, and pulled out knives. I limped after them as fast as I could go but kept falling and I was still too far away to help her when they started shouting. The back-up cars had been hit with explosions too. “Kill her,” I heard the tall one say. “Righteous tyranny of the Gods can NOT be malice. Let the least of us wound, the greatest stab her through the heart and the fearful give the coup de grâce.”

“Halt!” I screamed.

    They gathered in a circle and continued speaking faster, louder. A frenzied one: “Zawmb’yee would fawn to the Council. She would banish our sister Zusoiti who champions the Gods, this Fevepo impostor usurper; she would kneel before the Council and not before the Gods. She, our inferior, would deny Zusoiti her enfranchisement with the Gods who’d paint her with the light of Love and make her Star brighter than the day of this puny planet’s sun. Hasten us all lest we’d be interfered with in our noble cause to stab out the usurper. Draw now the blood of the false High Priestess, each of you in turn with your knife, stab out this blotch… You, Sazrgk, Begin!”
    I crawled closer, picked up rocks to throw. “Sazrgk no! You of the least do not now promote yourself to fiend. Let them have their honors. Sazrgk, take your mercy and go…”
    Sazrgk stabbed her in the shoulder.
    I screamed the ancient kinesis: “T’ukmpuxogt!”
I became splattered in red screams drowning in oceans of slaughter that pulled me out of my mind with a fury that engulfed the sun and made it set in vomit.
    The sunflowers were decapitated by exploding shards of skull, and the headless bodies were strewn across the highway and onto the hoods of the back-up cars.


Zawmb’yee Saved From Death

Thus was the High Priestess saved from death, but I had been covered in blood and pieces of flesh. I had felt weak and dizzy. As I was crawling towards Zawmb’yee, Aipnijtku Yathyaz finally came running up the road. I couldn’t go any farther.

“Kvizee Doug,” he said, “are you all right?”

“I could do with a shower…Just a scraped knee, but Zawmb’yee has been stabbed.”

“Argh. Lie here, I’ll get to Her.”


The Knives On the Table

We’d gone in a convoy,
the doors of her car were blown off

An evil twenty swarmed out
from fields of Sunflowers tall
knives redoubtable

They tied Her Sacredness to a fence
gagged her that She’d not reproach them:
their scabbards empty of their treachery

Such evil drawn out
upon the dastardly ceremony
that hides a scoundrel from a conscience

“Kill her,” I heard the tall one bade.
“Righteous tyranny of the Gods
“can not be malice when obeyed

“Let the least of us wound,
“the greatest stab Her in the heart,
“the fearful give the coup de grâce.

Villains, villains, I shouted.

Halt at once this vileness,
these sneezed speeches
a phlegm of your diseased souls

A frenzied one spoke:
Her Sacredness
would fawn to the Council
and not to the Gods

She would banish our Sister
who champions the Gods

This impostor usurper
who takes the crown
would deny our true Priestess
her enfranchisement with the Gods

Let the Gods rightly
paint our true Priestess in
the light of Their Love, and
make her star brighter than
the day of this puny planet’s sun.

Hasten us all
lest we’d be interfered with
in our noble cause to
stab out the usurper

Draw now the blood of Her Falseness,
each of you in turn do act:
stab out this blotch

Sazrgk, begin!

But I crawled closer,
picked up rocks to throw

Thus I:
Sazrgk no! You of the least
do not now promote yourself to fiend

Let them have their honors.
Sazrgk, if you’d save your soul
take your mercy and go

But Sazrgk stabbed her in the shoulder.
’tis true: of weakness cold-hearted, he
did indeed plunge his dagger.

I screamed the ancient kinesis:

I became splattered in red screams
drowning in oceans of slaughter that
pulled me out of my mind with
a fury that engulfed the sun, and
made it set in vomit

By T’ukmpuxogt bold
the sunflowers were decapitated
in exploding shards of skull, and
headless bodies were
strewn across the road.

Thus I protect my Love
the only true Priestess.

*Douglas Gilbert, ebook: The Blog That Would Destroy the World,(Amazon: ASIN ‏ : ‎ B08L1CR3Z4 ), 2016, CHAPTER NINETEEN, Entry 215, ISBN 978-1-329-90425-5

My Love Poems Don’t Work To Cast a Spell On You 05

Love Poems

 Poems Loosely about Love

    by Douglas Gilbert
Loving enough for her to stay in a war zone can get her killed. Sometimes she stays too long when leaving is best. Flowers are ugly when they serve no purpose.
    War is like a Great Horned Owl. Not wise. Not kind.

Tragic things happen in love and war.

Why Did You Plant Flowers

Why did you not go
when I told you
the tanks are coming.

Why did you go
into the garden, when
I told you there are
never flowers.

I wanted to send you away
but I was too weak when
you wanted to stay with me

and I said hide, but
you wanted to plant.

Why did you not go
when I told you
the tanks are coming.

Why did you go
into the garden
where there is no rain

and a bomb
fell on you.

Douglas Gilbert, ebook: Back Door Poetry,(Amazon: ASIN ‏ : ‎ B08LQX3ZF7 ), 2019, ISBN 978-0-359-90524-9

My Love Poems Don’t Work To Cast a Spell On You 03

Love Poems

 Poems Loosely about Love

    by Douglas Gilbert
Deep, deep. Cheap deep. Somebody’s beem telling boys that girls like poems. Secret: mostly it’s a pun-moan except as a gesture from someone they already like, and like a classic line, and classic manipulation, those boys are like stinging insects hiding on a flower. That boy’s “all hat and no cattle.”
    What about cute Nature? Revelations: bees who sting are not charming; about the prettiness of birds: Great Horned Owls break the spine of a fox and eat it alive. Plus, once in a while (once upon a time): Sharks, wolves, lions, and other creatures who have publicists extolling their virtues, actually do attack or eat people.

    Sharing a business or common interests can be tricky.
Buttercup Babe

Visiting America, I met her
in a field of renoncules that
locals call butter cups

She’s my darling Buttercup
a compatriot

She wanted to offer me a partnership
in her business and to share business.

But much ado about love in the dew
and then onward afield ’til

we were back for a romp
under and around
the Arc de Triomphe
to play like tourists and
then marched to her home,
palace of the cuisinière
at the bakery de l’Étoile near Paris.

We homed in on her nest
over the bakery with zest, and
she was hot because the
spice of the day made for
joy and frolic at home

We chilled with a wine
she recommended for the night
and a tête-à-tête with an intimacy

and as our voices modulated to a purr
we unrolled a cloth like a sheet of dough
and my Buttercup
melted in the bed.

We kneaded in layers of joy
to be crisp and flaky like a croissant

In the morning, I left early to buy butter and
I had wondered: what is a croissant
if to do it is not to have it?

I came back uncertain.

I proposed:
My darling Buttercup,
let me keep this butter,
have the bakery, and
I will make you a croissant with love.

Well, she said:
You want the butter and
the money from the butter
and le cul de la crémière…
So you my love, must bring me
a buttercup of the field and I will
peer into your eyes until I decide
if you’re flaky enough to cook.
  — Douglas Gilbert, ebook: Back Door Poetry,(Amazon: ASIN ‏ : ‎ B08LQX3ZF7 ), 2019, ISBN 978-0-359-90524-9

My Love Poems Don’t Work To Cast a Spell On You 01

Love Poems

 Poems Loosely about Love

    by Douglas Gilbert
It’s been some time since somebody told boys that girls like poems. But they hate them except as a gesture from someone they already like, and like a classic line, and classic manipulation, those boys are like stinging insects hiding on a flower.
    What about the “birds and the bees and other clichés”? There’s shocking news: bees who sting are not charming; about the prettiness of birds: Great Horned Owls break the spine of a fox and eat it alive. About charming “Nature” and ecology: Once in a while(once upon a time): Sharks, wolves, lions, and other creatures who have publicists extolling their virtues, actually do attack or eat people.

 “ ‘ove’ ”
There don’t seem to be good synonyms for “love” in English and it’s been diluted. “I love ice cream and you too,” doesn’t really work. Single words for “romantic love,” or “empathic love,” or “hot passionate love,” infatuation, etc. are not to be found. No word for “I want the best for you… what makes you happy makes me happy etc.” Is it a canard that Eskimos have 200 words for snow, and the French 200 for duck? Well, a little hyperbole, but the word must be somewhere between the brain and the private parts, and certainly doesn’t seem located in the heart though it is a long-lasting and pervasive metaphor. After all, fear is “heart felt” too but it’s not the approved metaphor

Coin a Word for Me

Once a gem,
the word’s been scrubbed
like a pejorative stone
in a teary creek, an
old river gone shallow

Oh let us coin, my lucidove,
our ever word, because
we’ve a tender ‘ove of us effusive
an edgyove, a ludelove
a kissove missive:
folded paper plane that soars

but gems can be dreamed of again.

In the journeyove dream
I awoke happy, enveloped in you
under’ove 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 lovidove

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 ‘ove

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
by immersion
and the kiss of the day
better than a dream,
my lucidove

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

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


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

Replica Mariupol Amusement Park Satire & Poetry (Draft 2)

The Mariupol Replica Amusement Park Near Azovstal (draft 2)
[The Haunted House Tour (draft 2)]

Certain Russian Oligarchs love
dangerous amusement parks.

The chief always says
if one guest dies accidentally
you attain three with largesse.

The building that I guard and show
is part of a haunted house tour —
scares for a known fee — to
include a haunted mill in lore
at no abhorrent extra cost

I’m a night watchman here
with a healing sore throat, but
it’s my job at my steel works

I work the graveyard shift
that begins at midnight and
people incognito who buy tickets
find scary regrets and woes
for entertainment, lo

although my building is just a
derelict steel plant dump
I still scream for believers
when the ghosts show up
though not everyone sees them.

We sell more tickets when I cry.
It doesn’t actually take a lot of acting skill
because the children often say, oh
they want to see the sun, and
my wife, her Mother, and our precious Mikhaila
spoke about sunshine on a video
in a bunker, a while ago.

Sometimes I recite a psalm
to keep the customers calm,
and away from a mockery
I cajole them into not breaking
the apparition rules:

Never tell them it’s “The Light,”
and not the sun they should seek

Besides seeking the sun,
some children ask
where Mommy is.

It can be a problem when
a Mom comes for her child
and they disappear. Then
there can be a shortage of ghosts.

Sad, but in this exhibit
we must consult
“Putnik’s Manual for
The Promulgation of Accidents in War”

The chief always says
if one customer blows away,
you gain back three.
So an accident happens.
Cruise missiles apparently
can malfunction,
or there’s a strategic cave-in,
it is said.

Since we don’t make steel anymore
all of this is necessary, and
we need a land bridge to
the Devil’s headquarters.