April 12: Green Creatures, A Mad Seer, Orange, Other Stuff

I dwell on planets where

Green living creatures there

Thrive along paths beaten bare

And bipeds use hands to care

Avoiding the rough verbal snare

That makes Earth a nightmare

Dreamt while I was unaware

And under a cold moon’s stare

Reminder of eyes everywhere

Except on my planets fair

Where I have made a lair

Safe from Earth’s rampant despair

I dwell with green living creatures

That contrast with Earth’s features

And here all of the bipeds share

Feelings only dreamers can compare

But somehow I still dreamt of Earth

And a rotten monstrous birth

For moonlight leaves nothing green

And outside my lair some worlds are mean—


What I have done to end up what I am,

Where I have been, and what races I ran;

Truths taught and learned on not giving a damn;

Sharing with believers what hope I can;


Conquered and quiet and tamed in a room,

I know and they know I’m not leaving soon.

I behaved badly and charted my doom,

In league with the moon I became a loon.


With prescient ramblings and fortunes for some,

Mad sage and seer with work never done,

I attract flocks begging for just a crumb,

Something to astound them, futures that stun.


I’m a mad monster—what I say and see

Is best confined as a mind’s mystery.


To defend orange, the color’s maligned!

Just because someone’s head is a behind,

We should not taint a color entire—

Not such a hue related to fire!

If you hate orange, you’re out of your mind.


For some there’s pain for pigment to remind

Of politics turned a carrot unkind,

Thus the color is merely a mire.

To defend orange!


Think of flowers: lilies, roses you’ll find!

Please don’t choose to be selectively blind!

Maybe bad orange will trip a wire

That flushes color from each bad liar,

But until then I am strongly resigned

To defend orange!


Too cool for school, well, it fits, we suppose:

You try on an image and then it grows.

Every now and then a passerby hoots.

(We’ve no idea we’re like male prostitutes.)

We’re down with the chicks, man, and it sure shows.


You’d guess we’re cold with small nipples like those,

But that’s just how we look without our clothes.

We might consider wearing cowboy boots.

Too cool for school.


Shirtless with jeans, on steps to strike a pose—

We’re large, in charge, slick, hip, cutting edge bros.

With every sex god we are in cahoots;

We’re with each rebel who from the hip shoots.

We get attention from lots of homos…

Too cool for school.


Well, I surmise I’m down in a puddle,

Where life seems shallow but drowns all the same,

Where the world and my brain’s in a muddle,

And I’m tired of the rules of the game.


Here in the wet I know just what I’ll get,

And I’ll feel like it is all somehow right.

The puddle flushes me like the toilet,

Swirling me with filth in puddled delight.


Depression waves at you—“Hi!” from the sea,

But it has choice to obliterate me—

It can seem as shallow as it can be

And still swallow the whole world completely.


Did you know you can drown in a teaspoon?

I know some puddles that might try spoons soon.


The sun also watches and holds its heat

From anyone who won’t march the sun-beat.

To praise the darkness is too indiscreet:

The sun also watches, vengeful Ifrit.


The sun sees us wanting, peers through the trees,

It knows deprivation, knows it can please

Sun-dripping sadism, which likes to tease—

The sun sees us wanting, dries up the seas.


The sun looks alluring, burning so bright.

It was the first god, judging what was right,

Taking sacrifices, choosing true sight:

The sun looks alluring, go with the light.


If day has an eye looking down, it burns,

As do followers—to know all it learns.


The old scary house where Psycho-Bird dwells

Lures in victims with lies that it sells

By seeming cheery and harmless enough—

To fear an old birdhouse is kind of tough—

But Psycho-Bird knows of one thousand hells!


How big is this bird of which legend tells?

Does it crush buildings, and does it quaff wells?

His house in a bread box fits with more stuff,

The old scary house where Psycho-Bird dwells.


You know his house by the ample corpse smells;

The house has a notch for each fool he fells.

You should know by now, Psycho-Bird plays rough:

Approach his house, expect him to be gruff—

Some Psycho-Birdhouses don’t have doorbells.

The old scary house where Psycho-Bird dwells!


Sometimes at night, the Russians invade me–

I maintain I hope Putin’s not involved!

Lime, ginger beer, and vodka persuade me

International strife might be resolved.


The Moscow Mule might enable spy tech:

When I drink, microchips slip in my brain.

If that’s true, it’s too late, so what the heck:

I’ve got a few more copper mugs to drain!


Who said it’s Muscovite to drink some lime?

I get my limes fresh from the U.S. of A.,

And I’d drink vodka, well, just anytime,

And think of the import tariff they pay!


I’m a patriot with a Moscow Mule.

Aren’t we all now with this president fool?


Gobs of palm trees, and yes, some more lights please.

It’s unreal: it will have you on your knees.

We can be off-center—oh well, why not?

We get together, redefine what’s hot.

Welcome to new life within the Valleys!


Watch the satellite towns in our rallies

Where unknowns sometimes find success with ease—

What some say of LA County is rot—

Gobs of palm trees!


Snobs downtown look at us, turn heads, and sneeze,

But we revel in our warm mountain breeze.

The rent here also costs a handsome lot,

And for our LA values we’ve all fought—

We only differ by a few degrees—

Gobs of palm trees!

Talking to you is way more interesting than talking to myself. What do you think?

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