Archive | September 2015

Up the Yin Yang and Out the Wazoo

Now, have I let anyone down just lately?
…Today, last week, or anytime soon?
Someone said someone said I’m the one to call.
‘Guess I asked for it; I’m “the jim,” after all.
‘Seems I frequently manage to appear the buffoon.
Had it I to do over, I’d present myself stately.

I do manage, it seems, not by contract or pact,
To promise a thing I might happen to do,
But by temperament tuned to please people at will.
It’s implied I’ll do all that’ll show off my skill,
And as I do so I most certainly screw
My chances of keeping my pride intact.

“Up the Yin Yang,” folks say when they want to express
A massive quantity of what is concerned.
It’s a curious quip… somewhat rude to the ear.
It implies that the Yin and the Yang disappear
When up them, there’s something each has not learned.
If there’s guilt up my own, I know not to confess.

But if it’s demanded, I’ll comply ‘cause I’m true
To the tune of expressing just who that I am.
There’s no apology; no offense was committed.
Any pretense of shame for me’s not well fitted.
The archetypal sacrificial Lamb
Clears the Yin Yang to engage the Wazoo.

Mercury Retrograde

The sun is in Libra; my twelfth house is a mess.
There’s a tight square between Saturn and Mars today.
Uranus is transiting; mine may be as well.
When my life seems a pain in the drain I can tell
Something’s up with my Mercury to my dismay.
Well, it’s retro; it’s not time to fuss or to stress.

Well, ok, so it’s retro; just what does that mean?
One does not go to banks nor the baker for meat.
For a horoscope natal, I’ll consult the best.
I once tried on my own, but I gave it a rest.
Just for matters of mettle I am willing to greet
A fine Element Guru whose insight is keen.

So, dear lady of old, elemental and sweet,
As you listen to what lays your head to its side
I do wonder what dreams of your future hold true
Today, as the world now takes firm hold of what’s new?
I am there where you were, and in that I take pride.
My nostalgia are roses to lay at your feet.

Like small globules of quicksilver live on a stage
My fond memories of simpler times coalesce
Eventually returning to one big ball
With my heart beating through the ordeal of it all.
Yet the times that will come, I do honor and bless.
In that, I endeavor to embellish the Sage.

Electromagnetic Exhilarator Maintenance

Electromagnetic Exhilarator Maintenance

Sometimes one’s alignment one needs to align.
It happens because there’s just stuff in the air.
The ether is filled with such static and noise.
It also has much to endow one with poise
As we choose which stuff we should give the most care.
Be guided by feeling and then by the mind.

The electromagnetic cosmos is filled
With every thought ever thunk… every feel ever felt.
With each moment we’re conscious we add to the flow
Of inter-cosmo-electrical plasma although
Sometimes we can’t deal with the hand we’re dealt
So it also includes every will ever willed.

Thought makes for feelings, then feeling for thought.
The two leapfrog within a parallel tank.
The resulting vibration from this interplay
Has a frequency matching our mood for the day.
For all this, whom do we have to thank?
It’s our own blessed selves wherein resonance is sought.

We each have a knob or a touch screen or such
Where we adjust our feelings and thoughts at will.
When we do so, we tune into something inside
That lets us know there’s nothing we’re denied.
The station we choose will not send us a bill.
If it does, it surely won’t be very much.

Smoke Break

Some group once suggested
We should do it in the road.
And if you want to show the road you’re courageous
Why not it do in color? You’ll be waxing outrageous.
Upon you attention will be bestowed.
Let your head be invested.

Cans need breaks every once in a while
Like the tall dark ones who stand up on their own.
Just sit your narrow black cans on the ground.
Make a line so folks know you’re not messing around.
And smoke your asses ‘til the cows bemoan.
Once cans get stoked, they be smoking in style.

Every break is a take on a different scene
And a smoking one sure takes the dull off the day.
When color’s included, life’s a beautiful rhyme.
It don’t have to be rainbow; all colors are prime.
Show your true color now; all people should play
Every break time, even those that are in-between.

If you’re rather young and quite new to smoking
The Surgeon General has made it quite clear.
Don’t smoke in the middle of a busy street.
Your can could get kissed by a tire’s cleat.
You don’t want your break to at once disappear.
It’s been a long time coming. You know I’m not joking.

The Away Mission

‘Left the ship yesterday.
‘Hadn’t been ashore since this time last week.
The stardate’s been logged, now my vulcanoid half
Beams back aboard to join the human in laugh.
My left wing gorilla joke meet the crowd bleak.
I am back home to stay

‘Til the same time next week lest I go out for food.
I so much rather to keep to myself
Only because I can’t know how folks take
My attempts to make funny. Folks seem not awake.
Would I don a pink zoot suit and dance like an elf?
Screw you, club! I don’t like it when you’re so rude.

I don’t give a rat’s ass what you folks say either.
You chatter and bicker and make a mess of my mind.
You asked me to treasure; that much is true.
Why not treat me as if I have a clue?
Our karmas are linked; our souls intertwined
Therefore I appreciate a week long breather.

I take my heart serious; I’m a sensitive old bitch.
My ship is my Fortress. I leave it with pause.
If I had a crew, I would delegate missions.
I’d avoid erroneously derived contritions.
I don’t expect anyone to give me applause
But, damn it, laugh when I say! I am not a sales pitch.

Theta Fuchsia Bactorial

A plane is as sane as a blueberry stain.
Measured backdrop caress inter-parallelled lines
In a land where most variables got their names
From the Greeks whom are wise at playing such games.
Three planes form a corner and from it inclines
A hypotenuse dotted of structure urbane.

A line is one kind of a thing on the mind
Of the gluttons of absolute order of things.
All space is a place where a Theta can live
And perhaps raise a family, then forever give
A reason for mind to perk up and take wings
And pursue all unknowns like a bat in the blind.

The pursuit of Theta’s no quest for the meek
Especially, of course, if that Theta is Fuchsia.
There’s just something about girl Theta; it’s true.
I’ll chase that fine fanny ‘till my brain turns bright blue.
Though just a bit radical, this all’s not to confushia
Well-Infected, I’m a recursively factored antique.

A Piece of Time’s Pi

A Piece of Time's Pi

It’s about time a fool might wonder why
People chose the numerals one through twelve.
Yet the answer comes clear if one doesn’t research.
As the cuckoo bird beams from its house to its perch
Tweeting each hour’s chime, there comes reason to delve
Into possible use of that weird number Pi.

Folks have done this before, so it ain’t nothing new.
I’m no math geek, but this strange faced clock is a trip!
Its circumference empatterned with all versions of Pi
No one could be more bedazzled than I
Would the bonging, then tweeting, its character strip?
What mind would come up with this out of the blue?

A circuit is three hundred sixty degrees
And equals twelve hours sliced up in a way
That puts Pi on a pedestal where it may find pride
As to how to tell time with it’s hard to decide.
When it’s four Pi over three should I then start my day
Or perhaps two Pi after, to begin it with ease?

A Hominid On Hominy

Light travels at the leed of spight
And sound, pretty much, at the seed of spound.
Forecast for tonight is it’s gonna’ get dark
But that doesn’t mean there’s no room for remark
And by the time the sun comes back ‘round
Light returns surely; things are always alright.

A farmer once traded his corn for a kite
Though a special kind where he could fly back in time
Then fly back again with some knowledge on hand
To steer clear of mistakes and increase yield for his land.
He did so, of course, and did not pay a dime
To do it all, thus, he was filled with delight!

A beggar once begged a man for his beard.
It made sense to ask since the beggar had none.
The man said, “Why not? Let us go to the barber.
You’ll have your transplant, and I will have harbor
In realizing facial hair ain’t always fun…
You would know that yourself if you weren’t so weird.”

Little lambs do eat ivy and girl deer all the oats.
There’s eating competing and food fest galore.
If a dude don’t eat didly, there’s a fatter of mact!
He may be allergic to didly, thus his judgement’s intact.
If you come bearing didly and knock on my door
I’ll welcome you gladly. That’s how my cork floats.

To Beat A Dead Fly

Dear fly came by
Wasn’t much on its mind
It just snuck in to visit a while
Perhaps to assess the funk in my style
Or maybe just to unwind
And cop a sigh

Dear fool am I
Engulfed in my madness
Tizzied about and engaged in my Thing
Sharpening what my focus might bring
I often find gladness
In what I try

You’re cool, dear fly
But please don’t get in my face
Don’t buzz nowhere near me; the sound causes terror.
Yet I know that’s my menses; with you there’s no error.
Mind your own business and keep your place.
Avoid my eye!

All sounds good in theory….

Tomorrow I’ll love unconditionally.

[Don’t give energy to what you don’t want.]

Another Shtick In Life’s Craw

Anther Shtick In Life's Craw

Food don’t need MO-DI-FI-CATION.
God don’t need your help at all.
Nature’s doomed to your ‘salvation.’
Doctor, leave them genes alone.
All in all you’re just another reason to moan.
The laws you screw with are not your own!

Life don’t need investigation.
What you do is cheat the game.
Mother Nature’s wrath will haunt you.
When She fights back who’ll take the blame?
All in all you’re like a pit bull on a bone.
You’ll surely reap what you have sown.

If a better world’s your expectation
Then why so few with much control?
Can’t the world’s own population
Solve its problems as a whole?
Human nature is so unnaturally prone.
There will come a time when we will atone.

The Clock Who Was Too Ticked To Tock

The Clock Who Was Too Ticked To Tock

There once was a time (or perhaps there was not,
Since time is a thing mostly gods understand)
When there were no time pieces of any kind.
These were times spent in ignorance of workday grind
There was much time for loving for woman and man.
People lived in the now, thus time couldn’t be bought.

Throughout that era folks had so much fun
And weren’t bothered by schedules nor respondent to chimes
When people felt like it they got their work done
Often long before started, therefore never begun
Children often came up with their own nursery rhymes
Then they acted them out beneath blanketing sun

From whence then this notion of time did appear?
‘Twas a soft spoken face with much tick up its sleeve.
With its tick concealed there, folks assumed it was normal…
Its demeanor demure, though, and speech rather formal.
“If my tick had a voice,” it thought, “I’d achieve
My dharma in life and a stellar career!”

So, this face had some numerals tattooed on his person.
The artist involved didn’t think to ask why.
He just figured a face can do what it wants.
‘Twas not his concern if, per chance, his work haunts.
Sure enough, when this face left the parlor, nearby
People got really sick; as he neared, they would worsen.

Officials then sprayed him with ‘numeral-b-gone,’
As they saw him a threat to the life they had made.
The face complained, “I have tick, don’t you know?
If I were permitted to tock, I would grow!”
But the people felt they were being played.
They made him leave town by the crack of dawn.

Sentimental Clutter

Things close to my heart
Are scattered through my life – some worlds apart.
Like leaves in autumn breeze
The things I gather drift right from the start.
That’s why I’m hanging low;
‘Don’t want no one to mourn when I depart.

‘Cause I know deep inside of the things that I cherish
Some will remain and the rest doomed to perish.
Three score years I have tasted the earth now.
Seems like a dream since my bare-bottomed birth. How

Sentimental Clutter streams, echoing my hopes and dreams…
Fundamental Sputter, mental spun.
Sentimental Clutter flows through my mind before repose…
Set my heart aflutter, Utter One.

If time is on my side
I’ll make amends to those whose love I tried.
To those whom I’ve caused pain
My sorrow deep is but a hope in vain
And as my heart beats true
When we return I’ll make it up to you

I’m not sure if I can keep the promise
Wish I weren’t such a lame Doubting Thomas
What I feel is the urge to remain here
Even though I may drive folks insane. Dear

Sentimental Clutter now entraps my heavy laden brow
Makes my mind to mutter gutter songs.
Sentimental Clutter tell of where I spend my time most well
Temperamental Cutter right my wrongs.

Offer the Wall

I’m off the wall but just a little bit more
Yet not nearly as much as the offest of all
I’m right off my rocker and don’t wanna know how
To get right back on it. I’m in heaven by now.
If someone looks me down, that’s my cue to stand tall.
I am proud to announce I’m a nut to the core.

If earth were a sweet cheek I’d stand on my face.
Since it’s not quite like that, yet, I’ll settle for knowing
Of nothing that makes any sane person’s sense.
Any chaos around me I see as pretense
In theatre of hell where life’s fun and it’s snowing.
Yes, I’m kooky as dookie yet much deeper than space.

This coffer’s a proffer who’s offered to all
In the midst of prevailing winds of change.
As a sensible screwball I note when I see
World leaders behaving as if they were three.
I’m often reminded that I’m not so strange
Compared to most folks on this batty ball.

Otter the Box

Our burgers are otter this world!

We’re Otter the Box. We do otter in style.
We’ve the best tasting otter this side of space-time.
Don’t order your otter from just any old place.
Our otter’s to die for. Our cuisine you’ll embrace.
Our nuggets with sassy sauce make your heart chime.
Prefer roasted otter? ‘Won’t take but a while.

Buy a bucket of otter, then the party’s begun.
We’ve got hairy-nosed, Asian, cape clawless and spotted…
We’ve got your smooth-coated all ready to grill.
Try our sea otter medley with urchins and krill.
You say, “Hold the seaweed.” We won’t get you all knotted.
You’ll have it your way, or our job just ain’t done!

When it’s breakfast, it’s otter spam omelets with jam
Or else biscuits with sea-salted otter brain stew.
We know that your tastes are by now all grown up.
Try our soup made from pre-mature sea otter pup.
Lick your fingers with pleasure; enjoy the view.
Let your hair down, chill out and just don’t give a damn!

Behind the 8-Ball Echo the Drawl

Pay attention when I'm talkin' to ya, boy. This bat - I say, this bat don't come from a cave.

Whatcha doin’ there, boy? Turn around; let me see.
I need to make sure you’re not up to no good.
Do it nice and slow like you do everything.
Any quick move – I just might take a swing.
I’m the bird on patrol in your neighborhood.
Don’t forget who’s watchin’ ya, boy. It’s me!

My job is to keep your kind under control.
Though don’t quote me on that. When I stutter you can.
But if I were you, I’d just keep my mouth shut.
Your complainin’s what’s keepin’ your race in a rut.
Don’t talk back to me, boy. Don’t you understand?
It’s my big mouth and ego who’s on patrol.

There’s no way I’m puttin’ my life on the line.
If you so much as flinch wrong, you’re goin’ to jail.
My patrol car is runnin,’ and my lights I’ll keep blinkin,’
All the better to get your black asses to thinkin’
If you whoop ass with me, my wrath will prevail,
And if you end up dyin,’ with that, I’m just fine.

There’s no problem with race in my neck of the woods.
I keep a tight watch on black life that I see.
After all, black lives matter. Ain’t that what y’all say?
To me, that means screwing you day after day.
If I go to jail, in no time I’ll be free
To resume my pursuing young black men with hoods.