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.

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.

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?

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.

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.]

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.

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.

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!

Holy gross-out, mcdude, I can’t keep my mouth shut.
What a hell of a sight, here, before my eyes!
Has the whole world gone crazy, or is it just me?
Has nature swapped roles for the bird and the bee?
No way, Jose, I will not improvise.
Dude, you cannot marry your frigging mutt!

Don’t matter if it’s pointer or setter.
Don’t matter what the Supreme Court has decreed.
Your love screws with my mind, as well it should.
I will not have your kind in my neighborhood.
I don’t care if you get on your knees and plead.
For you, there’s no living, for worse nor for better.

You want me to cosign your doggie style?
Well, listen up, junior, let me give you a clue.
No dog can give a man fantastic head.
Go find some nice deep throated woman instead.
You’d lick a lab’s loin? Don’t tell me it’s true.
Don’t care if she nibbles your ear all the while.

Take leave of my church. Kindly be on your way.
I’ve married all kinds in my numbered years
Among races and faiths and the various genders…
Pimps and prostitutes, pearls and pretenders
But the gall of you two surely accents my fears.
Please scoop up that poop, and have a nice day.

No pending lawsuits; no fall from grace
I’ll be straight up and right in your face
‘Ain’t mis-physishin,’ I’m wishin’ good health for you.

I’m not a fisherman who can’t catch a fish
I’m not a musician who hates to musish
‘Ain’t mis-physishin,’ my mission is tried and true

I won’t prescript you with no reason why
I won’t inject you unless you might die
‘Ain’t mis-physishin,’ permission shall be my cue

I get enough sleep; my libido’s in check
My heart will not pound if I gaze down your neck
I’m big on privacy; I won’t tell a soul
Of your bad breath or massive malignant mole
‘Ain’t mis-physishin,’ contrition is mine if I do

My work is my practice; I learn as I go
My patients are teachers; there’s a lot I should know
‘Ain’t mis-physishin,’ your condition is up to you.

I am a madman on this earth plane
Yet I came knowing how
To play this game of life
And to live more in the ‘now’

Somehow I missed the point completely
I can’t figure out why
So, this Wichita Madman
Does take to the sky

You say I need some kind of therapy
I say, ‘Go take a hike’
‘Cause if you mess with me
You’ll find we’re much alike

We are not singing in the sunshine
We are not dancing in the rain
But this Wichita Madman
Will never complain

It seems I’ve found the right Vibration
One that suits me just fine
I know what’s yours is yours
And I know what’s mine is mine

Next tornado leaving Kansas
I’ll be yellow brick bound
In the land of the little folk
With their emerald green town

Strange cyan hue surrounding the black hole in Andromeda
Such odd and extraordinary phenomena
For more than a decade no one had a clue
And don’t it make my black hole blue

The blue light comes from a disk of hot young stars
Pancake shaped and swirling like racing cars
My massive singularity it does eschew
And don’t it make my black hole blue

Thanks to the Hubble and its imaging ways
Thanks to the watchers, and their unceasing gaze
My existence is confirmed. There’s no guessing now.
The birthing of stars one cannot disavow.

With the mass of 140 million suns
I keep a watchful eye on my blue little ones
But what else can such a big mother do
And don’t it make my black hole blue

Don’t it make my black hole…
Impervious to flack hole…
Don’t it make my black hole blue

Since last half past Fall
And deep within
I ponder what there may be to know
To stop sneezes bandied to and fro.
Is it a sin
To detest them all?

 Hermetically hithered in psychic mist
The itching olfactory ceiling is felt,
Then orgasmic release of one’s germ revenue.
The sound that is uttered is a phlegm filled “A’choo!”
Whence just moments prior, within sickness dwelt.
At least cover your mouth, I must insist!

 “A’choo!” then, is standard
Among most
Though benign variations span worldwide
By syllabic profusion, they all coincide –
All a toast
To sickness meandered

 When I went to the doctor, I got my shot.
While waiting I met with a sniffling soul
When I said “Hello,” he said “Hid-thish… How are you?”
‘Twas obvious this fellow’d come down with the flu.
I’m back home by now, and I’m feeling quite whole
So hold on to your germs, and ‘hid-thish’ me not!

Begetting baubles’ bangling brass beads
Blankets bare bitterness beyond better belief.
Believing in boredom belittles the brain.
Browbeating the blues but beleaguers the bane.
Bad beef bruises bellies, but believing bodes brief.
Bantering boasts bewildering breeds.

 Big butterfly balance between banging butts
Beneath beaming blue bass before bedtime
Begs to bedazzle, beguile, then beseech
Bastards bound blissfully blind by the beach
Before buzzards befall bitter birdlime.
Besides breaking bread, Boasting Broad-beak be-struts.

There was once old swimmer named Diggity
Whose woo came off just a tad wiggity
So, when he made a pass
Girls would say, “Kiss my ass!”
He did think them to be rather biggity.

Our dear Hothar is by now in spirit
With a love song for those who will hear it,
And, lucky for him,
Those would be Seraphim.
Their embrace, his warm heart doth endear it.

With no motive to sling pipe a lot
Hothar’s someone whom love life forgot,
So would you give a dam
For where Diggity swam?
And, do truncate his first name to Hot!

Oh, wondrous Pole!
Hail, glorious Throw!
Science and leisure applaud your facility,
Honor your cause, and respect your ability
To make a thing go
Or withhold its soul.

 Rotary, Push Button, Solid State, Toggle…
Variety’s but virtue, and you are the core
Of life’s inner dealings and outer expression
While greeting electrons in rapid succession.
Evolving more complex than ever before,
Many a dissonant mind’s  yours to boggle.

 Hail, Changing State!
The nub of your being
Is bi-stable bliss for device uncontrolled.
You’re a tidy technique for a thing to behold.
As believing breeds seeing,
You make life great!