The Kamala Harris Question

So let’s just say, for at least a moment, that I am correct in my statement that there is no more important task for our nation than to prevent trump from returning to power in the White House. 

Let’s just notice, first, that I am not the first to hold this position. 

And let us also realize that we were all born into this two-party political arrangement that is dominated by donkeys and elephants. 

And now the Republicans—or at least some of them—have succumbed to the fascistic spell of a megamaniac who thinks only of himself. 

Let’s just also remember that this sort of thing has happened before. This “poisoning our blood” bullshit that trump is using to draw his magamaniacs into his orbit—this hitlerian rhetoric—this cannot be allowed to destroy our .gov by the People for the People. 

So what are we going to do about it?

Oh, but we are stuck between a rock and a hard place, between two old geezers, trump and Biden. 

And you say, Booby, you can’t bring yourself to vote again for an ole geezer like Biden, even if it means your vote could contribute to keeping trump out of the Oval. 

I hear ya. This is definitely going to be a problem for the Democrats. It is, a very real dilemma for our nation. So what do the Democrats have beyond Biden? . . . if , like, Biden dies or something? I mean, it could happen, y’all. I understand the problem. Even so, There is only one one outcome if President Biden kicks the bucket:  Kamala Harris.

This is a problem. Truly. I’m not making this up.  Hardly anybody knows anything about our Vice President.

So what could possibly happen to shed light on this dark area of our public education. 

Now is the time for our Vice President to come to the aid of our nation!

Vice President Harris, it is time for you to step in and present campaign content that will truly make a difference in November. 

Dear Vice President Harris, we need to know more about you! Step up to the podium of public awareness and get busy working to help us defeat the whacko from Mar-a-Lago!

Just in case. . . well, you know. 

Glass half-Full

Slurfing to Bygonzium

Back in the 1970’s when I was a sophomoric literary dweeb at LSU, we read a  poem by well-known Irish poet, William Butler Yates. He had presented Sailing to Byzantium to the world in 1927. 

Byzantium was an ancient city in Thrace, a region where Europe meets ancient Anatolia, now Turkey. 

In 4th Century AD, Roman Emperor Constantine, having professed the Christian faith, moved his base of operations eastward, from Rome to the the southern end of the Black Sea. Located on a peninsula where the Black Sea flows southward through the Straits of Dardanelles to the Aegean Sea, Constantine’s chosen spot became the re-located capital of the  Roman Empire.  

Later, when Russian emperors professed Greek Orthodoxy, Constantinople was promoted as a hub for Christian faith in Eastern Europe and northward to Russia. 

The Turks took the city in 1453 and transformed it into their capital of the Ottoman empire. It was called Istanbul thereafter. 

Even so, along came windswept English poets of the Romantic Age— early 1800’s; they romanticized the city--don't ask me why-- preferring to garnish their fantasies with the ancient name idea of a very special Capital, adorned with gold and precious legacies, Byzantium!. 

In his 1927 poem, Yeats is sailing to that ancient city of hopes and dreams. He contemplates the passing of his own life from present into past; he fancies what might become of his own life’s work, his legacy as a star-crossed poet.  

You can read the poem here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43291/sailing-to-byzantium.

Here is the last verse:

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

Inspired with the long-gone poet’s meditations, I have composed a new poem that contemplates this cyber-world wherein we now live and move and have our slip-sailing being through silicon strands of the worldweb and beyond. . .

This is no century for old men. The young

 in cyber world enthralled, instograms in the breeze,

—those twittering iterations—at their throng,

the rapid rise, so digitally comprised,

bits, bytes, or packets, ascend the Net along

whatever is devised, typewritten and flies.

Caught in that whirling Web, all neglect

Monuments of unaging intellect.

 

An aged man’s just a boomer thing,

Past-prime dream of TV bling, unless

King of Soul rise up and sing, and lately fling

Every matter into a web address.

Gone is the singing school and studying

Monuments of parchment magnificence:

And meanwhile I surf the web, cluttering

These slick streams of significance.

 

O sages, sporting history’s attire

Now in the stacked dustbin of a shelf,

Rise from that grave library mire,

And stir again , like some long-lost elf.

Take hold of us  anew, ‘though now askew,

And fasten our eyes to an Age-stained page.

We know not what we do view

In this torrent of thrills and rage.

 

Once beyond this web, I shall never take

My writerly identity from any webbish thing,

but such a form as ancient poets make

Of printed page and dead-black bling

To keep a drowsy babyboomer awake;

Or set upon a glowing Web to sing

To freaks and geeks of Bygonzium

And weary websmiths of Siliconium.

King of Soul 

Remember our Fallen Patriots

 I did not serve in the Vietnam war, but my old growing-up buddy, Johnny, did serve. And he came “marching home.”

In the very first lottery, 1970, my number came up 349, so I, literally, “lucked out” of it. 

But I am thankful for those men and women who served our nation in the wars.  Whenever I see the old veterans anywhere with their military identity caps on, I always thank them for their service. 

I was strolling through Boston Common yesterday when I saw this:

The people of Boston have understood clearly, ever since their shot heard round the world . . . the dear price of freedom paid by our fallen soldiers. 

As for my commemoration. . .  My tribute is written in the novel, King of Soul, an historical fiction presentation of what happened to our nation during the war in Vietnam. In the story, several battle scenes are described. In one instance, I retrieved an historical account of the battle at Ia Drang valley, from the “We Were Soldiers Once. . .” historical account published by Joe Galloway and Lt. Col. Harold Moore. For my novel account, I re-wrote their description in my chapter 6. Here is an excerpt from King of Soul:

       Next thing you know 150 of the enemy were coming up on three sides, north, south and east, and the soldiers of Bravo 2^nd Platoon were going down. Lt. Henry ran from man to man trying to get a defense organized, until . . .

       He was cut down. Lt. Henry, seriously struck, radioed his Captain John, said he’d been hit bad and platoon command would go to Sgt. Carl. Lt. Henry gave specific instructions to his men to destroy the signal codes, redistribute the ammo, call in artillery and get the hell out of there if they could. 

He pulled the platoon together so they could make their stand; before he expired, green lieutenant, 24-years old who had stuck his neck out, looking for the long ride and when you get right down to it, put the brakes on a very large NVA unit that would have been thick in the battle for the LZ down below them. The very presence of Bravo 2^nd Platoon so far off the beaten path up in the northwest away from the main American position—their marauding up there on that ridge had confused the enemy commander as to where exactly the Americans were and how far out they had penetrated in all directions. Their bravery had helped their fellow-soldiers build the battle in which Americans ultimately prevailed. 

       So Lt. Henry got hit; he was kneeling when he caught the fatal bullet. A few moments later, his replacement in command, Sgt. Palmer took a bullet in the head, was suffering and then a grenade landed nearby and snuffed the life out of him.

       The encircled infantrymen of the Lost Platoon were all on the ground now, unable to raise their heads because, to do so, and they knew it, would bring instant death. They shifted into defense positions. Suddenly a mass assault came from three directions; they slapped their M-16s on full automatic and mowed down the oncoming enemy.

       Now with eight or nine men of the platoon’s twenty-nine down, and thirteen wounded, they were caught under fire in a 25-yard perimeter. Medic Charlie Lose crawled from man to man, treating their wounds, amping up their resolve, boosting their courage, keeping the breath going in and out of their lungs, the blood running through their arteries, the pain down to a dull roar as much as possible, the bandages going on and the defensive bullets going out, serving up medical treatment and administering raw courage itself with all that life support. 

We Americans express our appreciation for those fallen heroes, especially to the friends and family who remain. Lastly, I recall the words sung long ago by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young:

"Find the cost of Freedom, buried in the ground. . ."

Memorial Day,  May 25-27, 2024.

King of Soul

Listen to Luttig and Tribe!

 Oh, lamentable day that we have come to this dread junction!

That  trump insurrection hath hijacked our Constitutional function.

Two hundred and forty years’ of our well-written Rule of Law

Since We the People cut loose from the king George claw

Now blood-stained by maniac mob in violent insurrection,

While stand back and stand by hijack’d our Congress’ direction

As Senators and Representatives did strive to do their job

magas assaulted them with insurrectionist mob

Now we find our High Court in cahoots with the raiders:

As Alito’s flag signaled consent with the traitors

Now high-priced lawyers dream up some immunity notion

Something like a get out of jail free potion 

Meanwhile there’s the Joker running his gag mouth

to dog whistle demons from the Old South 

In the home of the brave

Jefferson’s turnin’ over in his grave

Fools glorify the Joker trying to manipulate Supremes

While Marbury Madison and Marshall get lost in the reams,

piles of maga magic cloaked as Supreme jurisdiction

As Clarence/Alito lean into immunity fiction.

Meanwhile back at the Ranch of Reason

Judges Luttig and Tribe smell a rat dragging Treason.

As our Republic is mortally wounded  beyond keeping

The ghost of Ben Franklin must surely be weeping.

May it never Be!

But we shall see.

Smoke

Leonard, oh dear Leonard

 Growing up in America in 1950’s was a great experience. We were celebrating our victory over the nazis and the JapHirohs.

I don’t there had ever been any time like it in the history of the world. 

That TV in the living room (or wherever you might remember it to have been in your growing-up household) was, literally, not like anything that had happened before.

I mean, the radio was a warm-up; no doubt about it. But methinks that broadcasting electronic images into millions of post-war affluent living rooms broke open a portal of human experience that has fundamentally changed the nature of life itself in this modern world. 

So there I was with Mickey and Minnie and Donald and Goofy and Walt Disney and Captain Kangaroo and Howdy Doody and Davy Crockett and the Flintstones and the Jetsons and Ed Sullivan.

Say what? Ed Sullivan? What’s he got to do with all that cartoonified fantasy world that  we baby boomerts were growing up with?

Well, for one thing, Ed had Myron Cohen, the comedian. It was amazing to me that Myron, and other Jews, Milton Berle, Alan King et al,  could make an industry out of comedy, after surviving the nazi holocaust. 

All that to say . . . this is what I am thinking about today: Cohens, starting with funny guy Myron.

And now, fifty years down the road,  there’s Michael Cohen up in New York, blowing the whistle on the trump scams.You go, Michael. Bust it wide open for Justice to be done. 

But what really blew my mind about Cohens was Leonard. I mean, before he died he composed some of the most profound musical lyrics that ever graced the strands of post world-war voices. 

Get a load of this: Leonard Cohen was reflecting on his life as he approached the Big D that we all must face some day. And Leonard sang it this way:

“I’ve done my best; I know it wasn’t much.  I couldn’t feel, so I learned to touch. I didn’t come here. . . just to fool you. And even though it all went wrong, I stand before the Lord of Song with nothing on my tongue but “Hallelujah!” 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YrLk4vdY28Q

That ancient utterance of praise took me back in time to the original role of the Cohens. . . back in the days of Melchizedek, Moses, Levi,  Samuel, David, Zadok, when the Cohens, Leonard's ancestors, were priests of God. 

And good ole Leonard, returning, whether he realised it or not in his heart or in his soul, to his roots,  the ancient Cohenrole of Priest, chose to use his lifetime platform of song to conclude his last great musical statement with hallelujah!praise to the Lord who made us all.

Thereby going back to his ancient Cohen roots. You go, Leonard, wherever you are! Thanks for your input down here while you were able to offer up, spoken like a true Cohen, ” to do your best (that) wasn’t much.”

At any rate, my feeling about Leonard's song, Hallelujah, is that it strikes a chord in all of us who have ever wanted to give praise to a God we do not fully comprehend. All of us, really, at the end, have little choice in those last moments, or months, except to stand before the "Lord of Song" or the Lord of All,  and proclaim Hallelujah! for the Life that has been given to us. 

Glass half-Full

the Chopped-up Tale of Nebutrumpnezzar

 Back in the day, not too long ago and not too far away, king Nebutrumpnezzar had a dream, after which he approached one of his Yid advisors for some explanation. King Nebu had had a dream which really bothered him. So he went to his trustiest aide, Fixiel to ask for an explanation.

Describing the dream, King Nebu explained that he had seen himself in a maganificent arrangement with a flourishing empire of towers and casinos and blahblah and riprap and there was in the midst of the dream a large tree—a super-big tree. It was so big that its branches reached to the upper reaches of the financial world; it was even visible in other parts of the world, with towering branches in russian capitals surrounded by beauty queens, and the beasts prospered in its shade and the birdbrains of the sky dwelt in its branches. It was all maganificent, like a walk on 5th ave and shooting some low-life birdbrain and nobody mentioning the demise. 

But hey, what the heck;? Suddenly a watcher pops up, calling out instructions to the the powers that be, commanding them to cut the tree down!

Whoa! What the hell is going on here? thought Neb. Little munchkins out in the hinterlands chopping the maga tree down with millions of little hatchets that they dropped into ballot boxes everywhere from atlantic to pacific, with friggin' mail-in ballots, no less, but mostly in the blue-shade spots where donkeys liked to relax in the shade, which didn’t make any sense. 

Still yet, now here’s Fixiel, droning on. . . with his explanation of the miserable dream. . . outlining the instructions that had been promulgated from on High.

“ But leave the trumpstump with its roots in the maga ground, but with a band of litigation and journalism around it in the new grass of the hinterlands, and let him be drenched with the dew of democracy, and let him find humility among the good’ole’boys. Let his mind be changed from that of a mogul and let a defendant’s experience be given to him, and let seven periods of time pass over him and we’ll see how well he how handles his being chopped down to size as he watches the rise of whoever shows up in Milwaukee to talk sense into the birds who gather to decide whether to plant a new tree or to hack around to try to cut  the old one down to size.  

So we see that the Most High in whom we trust is ruler over the realm of Amerilon and He sets over it, as the Good Book say, "the lowliest of men."  Don't ask me why.

But then We the People have to deal with the slings and arrows of outrageous magamania. So deal with it, all you magamaniacs and democrats.  I never thought I'd see the day, but hey . . . sh*t happens. Deal with it.

Glass half-Full

Sands of Time

 Back in the day. . .Way, way past the Beginning, when G*d was bigbanging the heavens and the earth and the waters and the Sky was over the surface of the Deep and the Spirit of G*d was churning up the waters, raising up the tides whereupon waves would roll across the sands of time and travellers would traipse barefooted collecting shells and whatnot. . .

. . . a traveler happened upon a sandbag, filled with sand, whereupon he rested himself down and laid his head upon the sandbag and contemplated the sands of time and the waves of fate and, and, as Lincoln had said and Barack had said,  the better angels of our nature. . .
 and the winds of faith and lo and behold as he gazed into the blue sky he beheld a stairway.

 

 And it was good. And he climbed the stairway in his mind whereunto he saw in the distance a tall pole with a small pole crossing it with angels upon the head of a pin  and he knew that what he was seeing  would transmit a signal of hope throughout the ages,

beyond the sands of time, leaping over the waves of adversity and even o’er death itself. You believe that? even over death itself? You believe it? If you believe that I've got some real estate I'll sell you in heaven . . .  but the price is already paid.

Anyway , meanwhile back at the branch. . . And it was good, and he knew it was.   And so he released the signals into grand Net where it may or may not catch the attention of men, women or even angels, if you can believe it,  who are giving attention to the waves of faith and the sands of time and stairways ascending upward into . . . into whatever's out there, whatever's up there. Just grok it for awhile the next time you lay your head down on the sandbags of Time.

Glass half-Full

Soft Stone Face

The way that all things, future and past, are now being swept into a timeless cyberspace present, I figure that my next novel, #5, might as well be posted online, as it develops . . . as it morphs up from the past, leaps out of my mind onto the keyboard into electronic eternity. 

Here is  beginning of first chapter:

“Over here, by the pathway, please, George, let’s see what it looks like, right here” she commanded. Leona pointed earthward and stepped away. 

Carrying the angel between their outstretched arms, her two dutiful gardeners performed the deed, easily.

“Hmm. . .” she intoned, considering its position in her front yard. She gazed at the statue for a moment. “Have a seat on the porch. Take a break. I need to think about this for a moment.”

George and Willie were only too happy to accept her gentle command.  And so they did. Leona walked out to the front edge of the yard, to get a street view. The angel—pudgy little darling that it was—she had encountered in an antique shop in Charleston. After a moment, she walked southward on the sidewalk, toward town square. A block away, she turned back to have a look from the block-away perspective. But Leona knew immediately that that distance was not to be the determining factor. Her little angel was just too insignificant, too miniscule, from that distance. It would have to occupy, by its placement, a more commanding position in her cultivated arrangements.

Arriving again at her front yard, Leona spoke across the scape to her twice-blessed handyman-gardener. “George,” put it there, in the middle.”

George set his cup aside, lifted himself from the front-porch rocker. With Willie, they traipsed down the four steps, along the sidewalk. Lifting again the angel, they carried it the sixteen-or-so feet to the yard middle. Arriving there at the appointed midpoint target, the two ole codgers paused. George set his eyes on his employer again. 

“Yes, that’s it. Perfect. Thank you.”

Lowering the angel to earthward brought down upon the ages an ancient legacy. But who knew?

A hundred years went by.

***  Walking past that familiar old white clapboard mansion, Noal paused for a moment to ponder, for the umpteenth time, the soft stone face of an angel. 

Back in the day, a hundred or so year ago, Leona Baresford—enterprising lady that she was— had been supervising the arrangement of her life-project, Mountain Aire Homestead. She had instructed  gardeners to place her angel in the front yard, in the middle of the front yard. 

Whenever Noal would amble by the angel, he could not help but retrieve in his mind some age-old memory. Whether the flicker was his own imagination, or some ancestral snippet, retrieved from some person, place or thing of long ago, maybe even far away , he had not yet determined. But hey, who knows about such things? Maybe someone, somewhere, Moses? understood. Noal was still trying to figure it all out. 

Maybe the angel, or the idea of an angel, had drifted down from heaven. God forbid that it might have trummeled up from the nether regions.

But hey, it doesn’t really matter now. That must have been in a time so long ago, and originating so far away, that he could assign, in his mind, no time nor place for it. 

Noal had never seen a real angel anyway, so how could he know? He was not even certain that such a thing as an angel exists. I mean, he had been taught, from an early age, that there was such a thing as an angel. It was known to be the celestial being that had stood, with its angel-twin, just outside the gates of Eden after Adam and Even had been banished because they had screwed up when they heeded the counsel of that frickin’ ole serpent who had been hanging around trying to stir up trouble before he finally managed to bust through the Elohim omnipotence with his apple trick.  

Now the guard angels had been assigned from on high. Their duty was to prevent Adam and Eve from getting back into the special venue, wherein they had been birthed into the physical world, but then later ejected,  in a time so long ago and oh so far away. 

Yes, so long ago, and so far away, in a garden far, far away from this place that— were Moses himself inclined to give an account of it— he would be perplexed re the manner in which he would—or even could—document the official, historical account of what is happening here and now in America, as if it were even relevant to what was happening way back when, back in the day, in the mists of antiquity. . . (to be continued.

Glass Chimera 

Peace and Safety Falling Apart

 Ole Will Yates thought the world was falling apart

back in ’21, it was . . . twentieth century version

after the Big War erupted with an Archduke start:

a royal assassination provoking Kaiser incursion.

But even before that, poet Arnold had feared 

denizens of 19th-century struggle and fight

as industrial might was violently gear’d

for restive armies  clashing by night.

Yet we all know a poet’s just the fool on the hill

crying useless tears for our human condition

And yet we see and we lament them still

as we homo sapiens go cranking our 21st edition.

Back in the day, hitler tried to kill all the Jews

But our guys dismantled his high-tech murders

So the children of Abraham could surely refuse

to be driven like sheep by swastika’d herders.  

Then Rachel, weeping for her children,

came fleeing, eluding that holocaust;

but along came hamas with hisbollah kilndren

to renew ancient grudges of battles long lost.

So what beast that had blown out in a Berlin bunker

while Allies liberated the Brandenburg plaza

could fire up fresh holocaust through a hisbollah junker,

slouching through tunnel trickery to Gaza

And what beast? that had blown out from a D-day bunkered,

could now be slouching toward our Capitol dome

while the chief maga magus of magaworld  hunkered 

in the Offal with dinner while insurrectionists roam?

It has happened before. 1939.

Smoke

Those Times for Rhapsodies

For such a time as that . . .  a time of recovery, a time for digging out of  Flanders trenches, a time to recover innocence and confidence, a time to relocate peace and hope, a time between two world wars. . . ’t’was a time for jazz,  a time of Rhapsody. 

You see, a funny thing had happened on the way to America. . . so much of our celebratory American rhapsodizing had been conceived, years earlier, in Russian angst and trouble. 

George Gershwin’s father and mother had gotten out of Russia by 1895. They had managed to elude Russian antisemites and make their way over to that classic destination where the tired and weary huddled masses of the world were still yearning to embark, New York.

Sergei Rachmaninoff had been born in Russia in 1873, but had managed to leave that tempest-torn nation in 1906. By 1918, the end of World War I , the composer/pianist had made his way to the land of the free, the home of  brave immigrants.

In such a place as this: the United States of America, George Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue came gushing out of New York potentialities in 1924.

Ten years later, 1934, in a Baltimore opera house, sounding forth from a Philadelphia orchestra, Sergei Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody on a theme of Paganini broke through  Depression era gloom to shine a fantastic theme, even in the midst of darkening shadows of Euro-fascism. 

Now, here in America, we can still hear those crescendoing hopes and dreams, which had been pounded out by the insistent keyboarding of musical masters Gershwin and Rachmaninoff back in the day. They had risen out of orchestral celebrations back in that old terrible time, almost a century ago.

Gershwin, pictured, recorded on piano with Northwest German Philharmonic, Rhapsody in Blue:    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=egsBu3B36KU

Rhapsody in Blue, New York Philharmonic, Bernstein:         https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cH2PH0auTUU 

Rhapsody on a Paganini theme: Sofia, Bulgaria Philharmonic, Georgii Cherkin pianist:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hpg_RW6FNug

Smoke 

Shelter at Samos

EuroRelief operates refugee camps on the Greek islands, Samos and Lesvos, although they are quite near the coast of Turkey. Samos is near Ephesus, and also near the isle of Patmos, if you catch my drift. 

Several years ago, our daughter worked as a volunteer on Lesvos. Now she is doing a stint on Samos. Here’s a pic she sent of the library there, where she's been reading to the kids: 

. . . looks like the librarians there could use a little help. We're glad our daughter is there to read to the kids.

She reports that the camp on Samos was built a few years by the Greek government. That new camp replaces an older one that had proven too small to accommodate such a  steadily expansive flow of people. The refugees who are fortunate enough to get to the island are striving to find a place to stay for a while, or to settle into. 

This situation is, of course, no small problem. Facilities at the camp are sufficient for temporary support. But of course, this work tending a constant stream of refugees requires a constant stream of financial support, as well as a steady stream of volunteers. Our daughter reports:  

“A bunch of government agencies and NGOs got together and designed what they thought might be the idealized way to manage the crisis and provide humane housing while also just…keeping things organized and …contained. If the budgets had continued and the programs had not simply faded away, this would indeed be an idealized way to handle thousands of refugees.”

But alas, budgets, like you and I, do not last forever. People there who are able to get to the next level of forward progress typically find a way to get to Athens. . . or somewhere. So then what? The Greeks cannot employ them all.  Do they find a way to wander beyond borders. . . to other Euro countries? or even beyond?   If you can think of a way to help, perhaps you will . . .

https://www.eurorelief.net

This report reminds me of some words from Matthew’s gospel, chapter 25: “I was stranger and you took me in . . . hungry you fed me.”

Say what, Jesus?. . .     You heard me; read the Book … sermon on the mount. It's not rocket science. Oh, and while I'm thinking about it. . . Blessed are the peacemakers.

So nowadays we have these international relief agencies working mightily to assuage the world’s refugee problems, and we have governments and other agencies struggling to find a buck or two to lend their support.

We have another daughter who works with  Samaritan’s Purse, an international relief agency:

All that to say, there’s a lot going on in the world. We all need to do our part to lend a hand, or a buck or two, or whatever is necessary to keep people sheltered, clothed and fed and thereby. . . to keep our peace from falling apart, if such a thing is possible.

Glass half-Full 

Going Viral

 Going viral, going viral! 

send Viral right over  

Web viral, Web spiral

send Viral right over! 

So they tell us on the Net

This little thing’s the best thing yet!

There we are on  Pavlov lab of Web

Lemmings on the precipice being led

Going viral, going viral to the moon

Acting fast, don’t be last! spend it soon

Eyes and fingers dancing to the tune

Surfers drifting on the swells of rising moon

While sunbeams gleam in celestial array

To brighten children at playground play

Here we contend in the grand worldweb fray

What viral wave did we catch today? 

I don’t remember.

What did the online spark  render?

Well . . . I can tell you this.

This latest deal—I did not miss.

I caught the swirl just as it was going viral!

Just before it went down in the world wide spiral.

But now, upon reflection. . . maybe I been took.

Guess I’ll go read a book.

Read a Book?