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001

Apologies to Brad Pitt for exploiting his name and face, albeit in a good cause.

Synopsized facts about “Who Killed the Electric Car?” may be found on Wikipedia, here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Who_Killed_the_Electric_Car%3F . It may seem that by now, eight years later, the point is moot, but we’re pumping more than ever out of the ground and into the sky.

“Jean-Luc” is a reference to the character Patrick Stewart played in the STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION omnibus. He was a starship captain who certified his orders with “make it so.”

Unforeseen Difficulty

Unto us an Engine framed, full bore & rectified
Now release we Inner Cowgrrr–yippy ki yi yi
Four-speed shift or automatic–really, what’s the diff
Oil & gasoline intoxicate–just take a whiff
Rolling on a highway beats a loll on the lanai
Eminent domain emissions make it so Jean-Luc
Sifting through us like a line of poorly-lit haiku
Even-handed citizens may want to take a Poll
Eco-minders balk if Greenpeace comes for their Renault
Never mind–y’all drive into the Sunset–say goodby

You can’t see a thought, you can’t measure, weigh, nor taste it – but thoughts are the most real things in the Galaxy.” –Robert Heinlein

“It’s the thought that counts.” –folk “wisdom”

“The thought without action isn’t worth the non-paper it’s written on. It’s the thought-driven ACTION that counts.” –Me

002

I may not be able to see a thought, but I thought I’d try drawing one. [bemused sketchy smile]

cantankerously unobstreperous

curmudgeons may include him, her, and you
and dogs who howl and bay to fill the moon
not mentioning an undynamic duo
that carries on more frenzied than haboob
antagonism coexists with brothers
neanderthalic whims take to the street
kerfuffle ends, but soon will be another
euripedes was ofttimes indis-crete
rasputin took some hits, but none too deep
olivier became a drilling foe
upended abel’s brother was no keeper
soliloquizing hamlet sez hell/o
life reads as epic, wit reads like a senryu
you turn a scowl to grin–you pay your dues

001
Can you find the twelve curmudgeons in this sonnet?

Don’t bother, he said grumpily.

SEPT: A group believing itself derived from a common ancestor.
EMBER: A small piece of wood or burning coal in a dying fire.

OCTO: Prefix for Eight.
BE: Exist.
R: The interjectory noise a pirate makes.

September Songlet

The good September’s here, but not to last.

October waxes as September wanes.

Be both of that as may and as has passed

Each year brings her September labor pains.

Ectopic pregnancies, some: touch and go.

October in September’s womb grows huge.

Rough gusts presage the broken waterflow

Now whirling in gestation’s centrifuge.

October pushes through September’s tissue

Through gauze as underlies a cap and gown

Through portalled Time which adds her to her issue

Out in to Real, with scarcely time to crown.

But some September echoes still resound

Echoic of the Fall of Grace she’d ground.

001

001

As with a good deal of other human endeavor, this text-based image is a happy-accidental cacophony of One Thing Leads To Another, with an overlay of a consciousness trying to make sense of it all. What luck it was that “Psychosis” is choppable into equal three-character strings, and hey! so is “Symphonic!” And Wow–“Psy” names a pop star of Korean roots, and so does “Cho!” A lookup of “Sis” yields–WOW!!! “Secret Intelligence Service,” aka MI16!!!! And so forth.

Early on in this image I’d intended to ask a musically-gifted friend to compose the three ending bars of the Psychosis Symphony–but the crazy-minded flavor of my acrostics made the route I took here suit the subject more fittingly. There is just enough musical notation to frame the elements, and that is another happy accident.

“Psychosis” words:

Paste-effacement is no basis
Prawn-bowl cause could lead to stasis

Shown shorn wraiths of Anasazi
Sphagnums guest heat into ziti
Spared a tool with Luca Brasi
Scarfed aphasic Nefertiti

Yet heard echoes of glissandos
Yaw pitched metaphoric rondos

“Symphonic” words:

She’ll help with a hum/bello piñon
Suppress an oppressivish minion

You might hear from Lauper, Cyndi
Yearn & search for Don’t Bee koi
Yes, & werebeests’ hoped-for chindi
Yet may garnish fresh bok choi

Might need to enshroud a Jung maniac
Moo, Zeke! It’ll get downright zany, Mac

001

Some day we’ll have a thought-recorder (though it may be argued that stuff like the above image IS a thought-recorder) and people will be astonished to read the transcripts of their own thoughts, let alone those of others. The Surrealists, I think, were on to something.

001

Dewey is a rat, and a fun one at that; so says my replacement on the Graveyard Shift, who is Dewey’s human.

Why is Dewey in the midst of Erratic? Just my erRATic sense of play at humor, and vice versa.

Here are the words to the quintuplesque acrostic:

Histrionic nonmouse idling-whiskered bulby-eyed
Eats preys scampers madly–synchronicity gone wide
Let the record show and tell a rat’s lot’s tough and low
Loathsome inhumanity yields rocky rows to hoe
O for Pizza cheesy with a crust that’s not too doughy

(Dewey really does eat pizza.)

Here is a sloppy, silly, having-fun one that started serious: What does it mean to “Act your age”? What age are cigarette smokers acting? How about Fred Astaire–working killer hours to make it all look easy as pie? How old was Tom Cruise when he jumped backwards onto Oprah Winfrey’s couch? And does the acting age of a hotel-user plummet when she or he succumbs to the impulse to use the Mini-Bar, and thereby get overcharged for killing brain cells?

So here is a baby addressing Parlaiment, a rock putting on lipstick, a tree forgetting he isn’t the sapling he used to be, the poor Sun suffering a Gout/Flareup, and your humble author proudly displaying his Duncan Yo-Yo. There are five badly-drawn images, but the label Figure 4 is used twice. There are two triple acrostics, hereinafter referred to as Dumb & Dumber. SOMEBODY needs to Grow Up!

002

001

Thanks to Bram Stoker and Anne Rice, Christopher Lee and Frank Langella and Gary Oldman, Bob Kane and Christopher Nolan, and who knows how many others, the public perception of Bats is of a fearsome, bloodsucking creature of evil. Consider, then, Myotis lucifugus, the Little Brown Bat, who swoops away swarms of REAL bloodsuckers, the Mosquito, and keeps us from being eaten alive.

All the words to “dusk bats” were written while sitting on a lawn chair in a public park in Clarkdale, Arizona, waiting with my Sweetheart for a bluegrass band to set up and perform in the park’s gazebo. It all unfolded as written, the bats doing their stochastic swooping, maintaining a respectful distance above us in a sort of punk ballet. The air cooled, and peace and harmoniousness filled the park.

Here are the words:

dusk bats

the pink leaves the overhead cloud

but there is still lavender up there

and some commuting bugs are getting

c a u g h t

in bat-mouths working for bats
whose funeral-umbrella wings
dart and dip them around

in constantly-broken trajectories that

m a i n t a i n

an above-head distance of thirty
to
twenty
feet

they are not spooky
nor ugly

just u n f i l f u l l e d