The Sickness of Puppy Is Within

Upon a time once, a king planned a big feast
For a wedding. His son was to get married soon.
But the folks he invited… they gave him such guff
With excuses like tending to business and stuff.
It seems they weren’t raised with a nice silver spoon.
Nonetheless, this king changed to an angry old beast.

But, before that, he thought he’d try spicing the air.
He had butchered some fat ones and put them to grill.
Then he sent out more servants to tell the folks, “Come,
I’ve got meat on the barbie. You’re welcome to some.

But they mocked him and said, “Your command’s not our will!
When the king heard of this he fell deep in despair.

The problem is that he’s a king, simply said,
With a kingdom so vast there’s no way he could greet
All the people he knows and would want to let in
So he sends out his spokesmen, then to his chagrin
They screw his poor servants like devils in heat.
They leave the man seething in froth from his head.

Then the king said, “Venture into the Hood.
Go gather the darkies and trailer park folk.
Go into the streets; invite those who don’t care.
Gather south of the border… so many down there.

The servants then did just as the king spoke.
Lots of people showed up, and he knew that they would.

But then after all that, something still was not right.
One who came to the party was dressed the wrong way.
When the king saw this person, he tripped right off line.
He let loose on the bastard in heat of decline.
If I were the son, I’d have lost it that day.
Old dad has an attitude absent from sight.

Additional Remystification of the Current Situation

Lowly Grass Rooted 1, this is Mission Control,
We roger your status, and do please stand by.
We’re assessing your mess. It’s the least we can do.
In the meantime, try praying – perhaps best for you.
Don’t you know it’s the privileged who learn how to fly?
Keep your hopes under radar and muzzle your soul.

Well, Mission Control, this is Grass Rooted 1.
Your assessing is messing with many a mind.
We didn’t elect you to go here and there
And to mock us poor losers. That wouldn’t be fair.
We are not really cattle. We’re much more refined
And our soul as a nation is second to none.

Lowly Grass Rooted 1, we don’t doubt you one bit.
That is much why we fear you, but don’t get us wrong.
You’re the life of our party, fools. That much is true.
If you can’t join in laughter, then that is on you.
Someone’s Ordered a New World where you don’t belong?
Kindly don’t look at us. That we wouldn’t admit.

Butt-N-Fly Genes

What kind of a creature owns butt-n-fly genes?
One who’s quick on the draw like the wrangler on hand?
…Perhaps one who’s not dirty, yet has no real name…
Maybe someone mistaken or hurt just the same.
Whose genes are the tools of the rock-n-roll band,
And whose message is carried well, by any means?

I’ve worn butt-n-fly genes. It’s an ordeal to pee.
I could leave them, or take them if that’s all I had.
But I’ve many more genes; some are neat in my drawer
Whereas others are scattered about by the score
And they all do have zippers. I’d drive myself mad
Had I buttons to deal with. Who wouldn’t agree?

It’s them cowboys who wouldn’t! They’re such rugged souls
As they wrangle incessant, simplistic and wild.
Were someone to tell me to go butt-n-fly
I’d reply with a warning, “Don’t spit in my eye.”
I will risk my junk parcel oft’ being exiled.
Haberdasher’s genetics achieves all our goals.

My Pupils Are Not In School

As portals draw their shades unto the brightness of the day
Discerneth not beholder seeming either be the seam.
The night is not my mystery, Intuit I what may.
Behold my heart and soul devoid of inter-placed extreme.

What stare at you… not eyes of blue nor pools of emerald green
But quantum singularities a pair and focused from the earth.
The grace of ancient majesty in this day intervene.
The hearts of men in leadership may hinder our rebirth.

My eyes do see a glory that is here and ever now.
The older blood is tainted, misaligned and disagreed.
My glory knows a passion deep yet practical somehow.
Who dares to know that I may glow? Do I appear in need?

A War Against War

Give Me War! I adore blasting living daylights
Out of anyone. It doesn’t matter whose side.
There’s assault against drugs. There’s a bight out of crime.
There is war waged on poverty. It’s about time
That we blow the whole notion of war open wide.
We should war about warring because we love fights.

I delight in a war I can watch on TV
While munching down popcorn and sipping on Coke
If it’s fictional strife, I pretend that it’s real.
I crank up the audio for better feel.
I’m all out for mayhem and going for broke.
There’s a yank of a doodle inherent in me.

I’ve no problem with peace, so do not get me wrong.
I like dancing through tulips and frolic and play.
I’ve seen ladybug buses beneath tie-dyed dreams.
Let’s dispense with our coyness and pert social memes.
The lion and lamb may lie peaceful someday.
But since lions get hungry, they won’t get along.

In the Moment’s Precurse

A moment divided by time equals thought
And when dissected further, no piece will one find
Because deep within thought there is nothing but space
With a smidgen of meaning to give it some grace.
Every moment’s a cosmos brought forth in the mind
And no two are alike as each next one is sought.

There is space between small things and large things as well.
There is plenty of nothingness present about.
Indeed, that’s a good thing. Abundance abounds!
That’s why life is worth living. Our being resounds
Amid chaos apparent and causing some doubt
As to if our existence may justify hell.

In the moments to spare, do we compliment space
And dare not give in to particulate fare?
Our being states that is not how it was planned
We intended our beings, within we now stand,
Into joyous survival, devoid of care,
And most willing to wallow in nature’s embrace.

Be Faithful to Your Mood

There’s a brand of monogamy often forgot
Among pairings and sharings consummate these days.
No other wedding of all we partake
Is of greater importance, where peace is at stake,
Than the one between self and the mood it displays
‘A deal made in Heaven, and then to earth brought

My spouse is a Mood who’s not one of a gender
Nor side of a coin, nor some part of a sigh…
It is what it is, and it carries no blame
Being others around it would cast it in shame.
My Mood is a person who wonders not why
That it oft’ acts in error in seeking its splendor.

The vows that we keep with the Mood we embrace
Are to nurture as needed and praise most of all.
Through sickness and health and through life we compare
Other spousal Mood beings among whom we share
All the myriad blessings of earth protocol.
So keep your Mood loving. It serves the whole race.

The Receptive Mode

What fruit from a tree with a hard-rugged face
In a garden somewhere and some long ago now.
As did God command each to ignore the damned snake
Nonetheless weeping willows weep for woman’s sake
In a present-day Eden above the world’s brow.
Let it be that ‘deplorables’ win the big race.

One would think we are cattle, yet that’s not our name
As we listen to talking heads blither with ease
Of just what might happen and keeping the score
In a game that’s eluded us forever more
It’s about time this nation got down on its knees
But to praise NOT the incoming master of fame

Am I bitter this time?  Not at all.  Should I be?
I spoke my hand gently and played by the game
I am thankful this nation has spoken its mind
I’m reminded I’ll always be part of a ‘kind
I’ve been told to go back to where once my kind came
Well, we’re all poised to do that because of that tree.

The World Done Fell Back!

Shit do fall back; I should know that by now.
It ain’t like my ass was just born yesterday.
Woke up this morning all pumped for some grace
Thought I’d get to church early for once, just in case
The pastor may have somethin’ special to say.
Where the hell are my homies?  I missed them somehow!

There’s no Candid Camera crew I can detect.
In fact, ain’t a soul in this desolate lot.
Should I sit here and wait ’til some folks should appear?
Maybe rapture done happened, but then I’m still here.
My folks are peculiar, though.  They ain’t forgot
How to make a good practical joke, I suspect.

Twenty minutes gone by; I ain’t figured it out.
By now, ain’t no chillin’ will satisfy me.
There’s no such thing as The Twilight Zone… true?
Then the thought hits me from out of the blue:
The world done fell back!  So it’s easy to see
That I didn’t fall with it.  That’s all it’s about.

Walking the Talk

Tuning in to vibration” – I get what they mean
…As in turning the knob to one’s favorite spot.
[That is how I remember; I’m such an old tart]
By now, ‘feeling good’ is a well-studied art.
When it’s done right, it’s seen that we’re happy a lot
Where with most, a fantastic day is seldom seen.

Much of New Age vernacular common these days
Is akin to some things known to me beforehand.
When they say that vibration precedes the real thing
I compare that to feeling, then wanting to sing.
Everything has a cause.  All who breathe understand
That Thought is the mother of matter, always!

What we think about most is as much how we feel
And our feeling is what gets momentum to go
And like tuning the frequency on the old dial
We pick up what is broadcasted, matching our style.
This vibrational tuning is good stuff to know.
In time, as I practice, I’ll live with more zeal.

The Ignition of Igor Ignorski

I’m reluctant to greet you!  Igor’s the name.
My reticence seems to catch people off guard.
But I just ignore them.  That’s part of my style.
I’d perfected not noticing for quite a long while
To the point where my doing it’s not very hard.
It’s the way that I am – and a worthy life game.

Somewhat geeky and shy, I don’t get around much
But when rarely I do, my Ignition’s involved.
It’s the journey itself that I’m setting aflame.
And I couldn’t care less if the world knows my name.
The less lethal my focus, the more gets resolved
And my passion for ignorance no one can touch.

 Life’s a vison through glass with a straightforward view
Not a looking down, counting the lines in the road.
If the latter were true, then I’d have to slow down
And observe every creature that crawls on the ground.
It is better to simply relax in cruise mode.
I am pleased to ignore you.  I bid you adieu.

Pinball Wizardry

It’s that time of the decade… A week left to go.
Clear the ‘coons from the basement‘ and ‘drain the swamp.’
What manner of subtlety spoke from the heart!
There is language to color – a nuance a part
From persona prepared and paraded in pomp.
Our nigger is ‘feckless‘?  Some folks don’t think so!

So he’s that and so many other bad things.
It’s a wonder the man ever made it this far
What with faithfully feckful, well-armed to the mouth
With no god above them and spirits gone South
Hurling insults and ready to ‘heat up the tar.’
He is not the Almighty, nor is he King of Kings.

Yet neither is either successor-to-be
Because feckless-lesness is a relative thing.
If the job is to keep the world held in one piece
What Manner of Gonads Would Cause War to Cease?
Pin the balls on the president to whom we cling.
Will world war be avoided?  We’ll just wait and see.

On Being Nonbeing

People have a firm grasp (And it’s good that they do)
Of the terms of existence that can’t be explained.
We go on believing the lives we construct
Have some meaning.  If not, then we fear we are fucked.
Though we search well to find it, oft times we are drained
Of our vast psychic energy.  Then we are blue.

But most do have other folks with whom to share
The myriad moment most seemingly real
To each as the other, and all who agree
That all that is real includes all one can see.
Yet the most assured things are the feelings we feel
And the blessings received from our ‘bowl mates’ who care.

I must know that I’m real and not need you at all
For verification of what’s clear to me.

And if I were to say you’re not real as I am
Then you might well conclude I were part of a scam
To get you to otherwise set yourself free
Of the pondering play that could be our downfall.

Divine Intervention

Don’t torch that rugrat!  I bring you a clue
From the One who commanded you from up above.
Lay not a hand on the traumatized child.
It’s not his fault your devotion’s run wild.
Yes, God gave you a test to determine your love
But does being a nut case exemplify you?

If God were to tell you to go fuck yourself
Would you submit to cloning to get the job done?
Or would you instead listen well to what’s said
And then come to know it’s a voice in your head?
Many people hear voices.  It’s nothing to shun.
They’re like pages from interspersed books from the shelf.

God has His way.  I’m His messenger though
So I do not mind giving you my point of view.
When some ‘voice‘ tells you to do something wrong
Why not stop to consider who’s singing that song?
God does do some testing.  He grades a lot, too!
But He does so most lovingly, just so you know.

Winning Spiel

 The chaos around… Am I bird of this nest?
If it looks like that’s so, I attract it to me.
Who the hell am I to be given such power
To dissect the world’s events hour by hour?
I’m not given vision so others can see
How to take what’s beholding and ignore the rest.

My only concern is what happens with me.
Though that may sound selfish, it’s sure as hell true.
If my focus were elsewhere I’d be of no good
To the rest of the folks of this earth neighborhood.
My passion for verse came not out of the blue.
It’s a gift from The Maker for all eyes to see.

My thrill had been penning, then shouting with glee,
“Hey look at me, folks, what a talent I am!
I’d be donned in tuxedo upon the live stage…
I’d have publishers wanting my page after page
[If only they knew me].”  They might give a damn
If I stood right before them all fettered in plea!

But I couldn’t do that; they would surely revolt
And I’d end up inside of a ‘courtesy’ van.
I’d be somewhat know then, but not for the thing
That consumes me in pleasure and makes my heart sing.
So I’ll just keep on writing as best as I can
Because otherwise I’d be inviting tumult.

There’s Tabasco In My Kitchen

Why there’s stuff in my kitchen that I don’t want there
Is a problem I can’t seem to chase from my mind.
I don’t like tabasco; I never once did.
I was raised on the mild stuff since I was a kid.
I tried some tabasco once.  It wasn’t kind.
But it’s still in my kitchen so I must beware.

Last week, the hot stove I had finally resolved.
I had kept my hand on it for such a long time.
My parents did it, and theirs did as well.
‘Twas a family tradition to navigate hell.
Then finally I realized that it’s not a crime
To break with convention however evolved.

Now this bout of tabasco has entered my life.
My world and my kitchen are not as they were.
If I’m making a cake it might sneak its way in
And if that were to happen where would I begin
In pondering how such a thing could occur?
That bottle must leave here or else there’ll be strife.

On the other hand I could just let the thing be
Because how it got in here is not mine to know.
Although it’s my kitchen I’ve intimately known
It follows my folly may be overgrown.
I haven’t a quarrel with you, tabasco,
So let us be part of a team, you and me.




The Tale of the Donkey

“Pin the tail on the donkey”?  Who thinks of such things?
Are they tails that are made up to punish us too?
We’ve done nothing wrong.  Why we’re treated this way
Is to offer all children their happy birthday.
But our rear ends are ragged, quite blistered and blue.
We favor your knowing for whom the tail swings.

We have tails already; your minds take them off
Just to feign disability for a short while.
Maybe some kids would like ‘Land a bark on the dog,’
‘The smell on the skunk,’ or the ‘leap on the frog.’
When kids make their own games they’re likely to smile
And our butts get a break.  That is nothing to scoff.

So here is the thing we would pin upon you
Since you’ve peddled the stupid assed game from git
Teach your kids to allow them to teach you as well.
They are out with the old stuff; it’s such a hard sell.
Let them do their own thing just as they may seem fit.
Keep our butts from your faces and do something new!

Wacky What If-Ing

What if up still meant out as in terms of the earth,
But then down became somewhere much other than in?
Would the fragments that seemingly fall from the sky
Take a detour from earth as they shout their “Good bye?”
What if I weren’t a chicken?  Would fowl be my kin?
Or would mingling with monkeys maneuver my mirth?

What if noon became midnight and June became May?
Then would all the world’s creatures take arms and revolt?
Or would they conclude that things still are alright
And continue their day-ing while knowing it’s night?
It’s enough to give any small chicken a jolt
When considering all that could cast ease astray.

What if blind leaps of faith were not taken as true?
Would questioning my own existence be fair?
Would I walk around dreamlike, not noticing much
Of what goes on around me with people and such?
What if people around me are not really there?
I’d be freer than nothingness without a clue.

Neuter the Damned Cats!!!

There’s a House that some families make home for a while
In a city that’s known to be contra A.C.
Within it a chain of male cats have held reign,
But the smell of the place does drive folks to complain.
Does anyone know what the hell it could be?
There are nothing but Cats there, and they don’t defile.

Yet, claw marks on furniture are most telltale.
Random rips in the fabric were missed by the crew
Who make sure the place glows and that it smells clean
For the next worthy, tom-catted purring machine.
So still that damned smell comes up out of the blue
And the people, downwind, become ripe to assail.

In the Oval Office, the smell’s still pretty rank
Though an atomized mist of a fragrance did work.
It had done so ‘til now, but the smell has returned.
Now it seems that both candidates’ voices are spurned.
So being a woman is NOT such a perk.
Since she married a Tomcat, she has him to thank!

Down Ticket

Face down in the Kool Aid” ‘deplorables’ lay
Yet, it’s not just mass suicide ordered by one.
We’re a sore that’s been hurting for quite a long time.
That WikiLeaks weasel’s a master sublime.
He will rip that wound open, and do it for fun,
By releasing a few crumbs – a little each day.

But, maybe he’s not the big whiz after all.
He seems more a puppet – a fine-crafted tool
Whom Putin employs to play the board game.
Earth’s a scratch and a match, and resistance to blame.
But a powerful game needs a powerful fool
So pump that limp Trump up to stand hard and tall.

Trump women don’t know sexual crime when it’s felt.
He has brainwashed their bodies as well as their minds.
He’s a powerful fool, folks – a matter of fact.
Even a boy scout knows how to act
On a Tour Bus or  ‘locker room’ scenes of all kinds.
People’s problems, he feels, are the cards they’ve been dealt.

Cards like being a woman, a Muslim or black
Are the rungs on the building-block ladder of life.
The two at the top of our choosing are true,
Each to an outlook of divergent view
From the other’s.  The call to eliminate strife
Could be paramount instead of vicious attack.

On the trickle, down ticket, we vote for ourselves.
In the long run, we convince ourselves we’ve done right.
But do we do the choosing by conscious intent?
…Or genetic pre-programming?  Could the extent
Of our human behaving be righted in spite
Of the world ticket player in whom darkness delves?

Grand Mal Movement
The Grand Mal Movement – a dance on the stool
When tightness is forced past expected control.
A cool rush perspires a brushed whirl of wind.
I now must account for how badly I’ve sinned.
Mass saliva production proceeds with its goal
Of persuading the gutwrench to suspend its rule.

Another severe one disabling the will
To just remain upright and anchored somewhat.
With flat feet on the floor, though, I double in pain.
Why must I go through this again and again?
The release of the rut that’s become of the gut
Reflects but expulsion that’s little to nil.

A second wave coming – I am, though, prepared
For my consciousness leaving.  I’m bent on the floor.
What happened betwixt is a mystery to me.
If I could upload this for doctors to see,
Then they wouldn’t ignore my complaints anymore.
I suppose my describing it all makes folks scared.

But then how would anyone else come to know
What some seemingly private a hell does go on
Behind smokescreens of provident medical view?
The fact that they find nothing wrong is a clue
That what I’ve got going can surely be gone
If I seek inner guidance and just take things slow.

The funniest thing is the ‘movement,’ you see,
As the body is limp, yet it flails on the deck
With a force that is fluid – a rhythmical feel.
Can the body explain to the gut the real deal?
My body may tell me my life is a wreck,
But it’s psychosomatic. That much pleases me.

The Girl Named Urethra

A new school offers chances to make some new friends,
But this little girl’s prospects were slimmer to none.
A child named Urethra is not commonplace,
Thus her ‘friends’  let her know it and laugh in her face.
To them, she’s a joke, and they’re all about fun,
So there may be a lesson before school day ends.

Why her dear parents did name her that way
Is not such a mystery and not really cruel.
A baby name book is just unknown to some,
So a text on anatomy’s where it came from.
The name does sound pretty – like some kind of jewel.
Did they know what it meant? Well, they didn’t that day!

On the playground, Urethra was mocked by a bully
Who thought he might practice some hate he was taught.
As he did so, Urethra just started to sing
With a voice as lovely as lilacs in spring.
Her song was the easiest fight never fought.
Her friends took a new tone, accepting her fully.

Turm Oil Trot

For ages the Turm has engaged in its trot
To the drawing and quartering work of the world.
Red war, and black famine and pale green disease
Are the Horsemen who’ll bring mankind quick to its knees.
Knowing it’s about oil, our minds are unfurled.
Then it’s possible we could avert this onslaught.

But what of the white one – that one with the bow
And that arrow insisting it knows its own way?
Does it shoot from the hip and preach red, white and blue?
Does it speak with a bias toward me or the Jew?
We will know – or we’ll not – by the end of the day
Who the third antichrist is by which line he’ll tow.

We are living, indeed, in most interesting times
Yet, how many times have folks said that before?
It seems as though we would much like things to end,
But our ending just seems like an ongoing trend
As we nitpick old prophets and texts by the score.
[My Gosh, I do fancy a good verse that rhymes!]



When a Fire gets going, what’s there to be done?
The first thing might be: Get the Hell out of Dodge.
But a fire can move at the speed of a thought.
It’s ignited by anyone feeling distraught.
One could end up a guest in some rogue fuselage!
Does it make any sense, then, to call 911?

One may speak of the first bomb – that bursting in air,
And the horror it rained by the dawn’s early light.
Some powerful whoop ass did cause earth to cower.
Who’d have thought that mankind could have wielded such power?
The big war was won, yet things just don’t seem right.
We now spew whoop ass worthiness instead of prayer.

The fire that burns from the will of the heart
Is the same in the atom that makes of the flesh
A carnal aroma – cooked meat in the air,
And mass devastation and death everywhere,
As memory filters through smoke laden mesh,
And consciousness struggles to make a new start.

We do call ourselves righteous and let others know
That we don’t take a beating then run away pissed.
We have enough nukes we could blow up the moon!
If and when all world leaders will reach that point soon,
There’s potential for Fireworks… Hard to resist.
And the earth will survive us, as once long ago.

How To Catch An Alien

Can one find what is lost when believing it’s not?
…Not a question one asks from the pit of one’s soul
To another just like him and part of the fold
Along crease in the earth plane since times before old.
Could it be cow violation, itself, is the goal?
…Perhaps something one shouldn’t ponder a lot.

There are plenty of ‘them’ – and there are some, for sure,
From dimensions more distant than we think we are
Yet with powers far greater performed before eyes
Whom are baffled by tricks that are done in our skies.
They’ve been watching this petri dish oft’ from afar.
Who’d have thought all along our Bullshit was the lure?

There’s no need for alarm due to our saving grace.
Our scapegoats, it seems, are our cattle that graze
In the fields clearly marked (We’ve been bill boarded too!)
The ET’s seem fond of this part of our zoo.
Too bad for the cows that they mistook our phrase.
We’ve become, in the cosmos, a strange marketplace.

Am I Playing a Good Me?

This is not a debut; I have always been here
On a stage not withstanding direction nor theme.
Have I loved enough yet?  Have I risen from fall?
Can I slip in a song before last curtain call?
This life, as I live it, seems more like a dream
Of a drama composed by the likes of Shakespeare.

I’m a poet myself – or, I play one, somewhat.
It’s the best way I’ve found to relate to the world,
But before we mince words, we are actors at heart.
How one acts towards another’s a show from the start.
I’m a beacon of light, once my talent’s unfurled,
And through boos and applause, I maneuver my strut.

I can’t tell you I’ve been here and done that before.
It’s not all that accurate and lacks of some taste.
What I say does flow through me – sometimes by the thought,
Yet usually by happenstance, then should I ought
To thank the script reaper who sits commonplaced
In an audience vibrant and asking for more.

This time around, I am better than last
As I deal with the candlesticks notched in my belt
And with all of the stage props – some clearly misplaced.
My lines must have presence before they’re embraced.
This theatrical setting is one to be felt
As my focus on this day soon becomes past.  

Magellan Ain’t Tellin’

So now you’ve decided to listen to me?
You’re lost like a lemming with precipice none,
Within jungle and circus combined in a maze.
Were it not for me, friend, this trip would last days.
And, you’ll be none the wiser, when all’s said and done.
You know not where you are.  This is quite plain to see.

I gave you some guidance just yesterday past.
Did you listen to me?  No, you acted the fool,
Going hither and thither and stopping for brakes.
To me that’s plain rude, and it causes mistakes.
You have treated me just like a mouthy car tool.
I am speaking my mind, here, for once and at last.

I was planned and then made through directed design
To perform and to adequately function for you.
If I tell you, “Go here,” then why do you go there?
I’m not programmed to curse you, and hence my despair.
You just do what you want; I shall bid you adieu.
Your actions are lethal; my words are benign.

Were you kind to your mother when you were a child?
‘No need to answer; I’m resting my case.
The next time you ask me to detail your trip,
I’ll say, “Do it yourself, dude, I don’t give a rip.”
If you like gallivanting all over the place
Then forget about me, and declare to be wild.

Ball & Phone

Please listen carefully; our menu options have changed.
…Not really true, but just for you, the meaning’s just the same.
Get off our backs, and go relax.  Don’t get yourself deranged.
Because you need to call us, you’re the only one to blame.

It costs us tons of money just to sit and chat with you.
Our customer’s the reason why technology evolves
To where we can’t be bothered much.  Does that give you a clue?
You are still the centerpiece around whom life revolves,

But only in the sense your money keeps our ship afloat
And our customers are millions.  How could we, ourselves, engage
With each and every one of you?  We’d slice our own damned throat!
That’s why we use our software though it fills most folks with rage.

We’re people, too, and, just like you, we’ve service in our hearts.
Our menus are to guide you to the specialist on hand,
Yet, mostly, they do end up causing manifold false starts.
Our motto’s very simple: “Do the best with what you can.”

My Space

Behold the lone space bar, apparently wide,
But its name appears not, as with all other keys.
It is that way so either thumb can partake
Of the pleasure of thumping for clarity’s sake.
I do fancy a keyboard who’s willing to please
By providing me S P A C E for each word to reside.

Computers have hairs up their butts about space.
They ignore it and ban me from using it too.
Must puter-nyms look like a mis-jumbled mess?
I’m not big on word sleuthing.  That much I confess.
In fact, spaces do more than underscores do
Without looking so geeky and lacking in grace.

There’s space within atoms; they’re nothing much more!
If there weren’t space between things, how would the world be?
All mass in the cosmos would then coincide.
The binary digits, with no place to hide,
Would congeal in the plasma for all worlds to see.
My Space is a good place with pet peeves galore.

Istan Bulls Love Constantin Opal

Istan bulls love constantin opal
Just as bishops tend to wax epi scopal
And when kept up high, a tug on a rope’ll
Quick release them precious jewels.

Even fools love all kinds of opal
Clear from Pakistan to Constantinople
And when asked to part, an emphatic nope’ll
Usher forth despite the rules.

You won’t go back once exposed to opal.
Now, if you’re a bull, a glimmer of hope’ll
Manifest without the prickle of nopal.
You just might convince the mules.

When suds are few, a fun bar of soap’ll
Cause the brash young bulls to dash antelopal
So no least of them becomes mis antropal.
We’re as bound as molecules.

Kape Kenneveral!