Full Fathom Five

"Full Fathom Five..." by William Shakespeare and James Lang

Full fathom five my father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes;
Nothing of him that does fade,
But do the suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Ding-dong,
Hark! Now I hear them -Ding-dong, bell.

Six feet under daddy lies;
Artificial joints his bones are made;
Drones flew over for his eyes
On You Tube nothing of him will fade,
Yo! Yeh be targeted by a Fukoshima transmutation
Into something rich and strange.
Out of the ground Galexy's ringing another voice command
Ding-dong,
Awsome! Take off your headphones. I hear da Dinga-dongas call.

Cracked Cat meets the Pope

It was a rough night in bed. Ducky Duck couldn't sleep a wink: his friend Cracked Cat 

was going to see the new Pope tomorrow. Cracked Cat was timorous about getting a benediction so early on in the Pope's Papacy but Ducky Duck was irrefutable: "Do it" he said.

(Ducky Duck reflecting on what Cracked Cat should wear to meet the Pope) 11:06 am

Cracked Cat slept well. He had faith in Ducky Duck, after all she was her best friend. True she was "special". One didn't run into transexual ducks everyday. But Cracked Cat loved her. They were in it together and the proof was ice fishing. Ducky Duck hated ice but loved fish. Cracked Cat was cracked: she loved it all. But recently she was on a poor spate: last month she only caught 2 fish in one week. Two fish! Night after night she came home chilled to the bone; her nails could hardly retract.

Two fish in one week wasn't enough to eat and usually she would catch 10 times that much!

Off she went  in Ducky Duck's limousine  to see Francis the 1st.

The timing was tight. Francis was just getting off his coronation. He got word from Ducky Duck about Cracked Cat coming and since he "owed a few" to Ducky, he couldn't refuse. He would have to take the cat in his private Logia and give her an express benediction. All this without a word to the press, the pontificate insisted to his entourage.

Cracked Cat showed up just before midnight. "I don't want just any benediction your Hooliness" she said, "I need a special blessing for ice fishing. Don't just Ave Maria me" she hissed, her head proudly held up, revealing a few of her sharp teeth.

The Pope got on his knees and murmured some things in latin. He then crossed Cracked Cat and said: "Ora tu puoi pescare tanti pesci." (Cracked Cat didn't speak Italian but she knew the word pesci was fish.) She thanked Francis and swiftly took leave under the look of angels and a lot of golden suffering on the walls. 

The next day she was out ice fishing and she caught more fish than she could haul home. What a surprise for Ducky Duck!

P.S. I Love You

I thought it would never happen

even after the Pope left his Post

after I wrote for more post-its and

received a box of post-hits

Let's not drop the subject:

everyone is posting, that's not the point!

I cometh here to address the

P.S.

Not the Picosecond that counts the paddle steamers progress

steered by a Palestinian Captain who is writing Psalms

to the French Parti Socialista

as his son plays on the Play Station

Indeed!

A real P.S.

When did the first P.S. appear?

Well before the Titanic when the navigator said:

"By the way, did someone forget the binoculars?"

Before Frankenstein said: "Should I have not also created a valium for Monsters?"

And even before Rubens quibbled "I could have painted Anne of                     Austria's dress yellow."

If these post scriptums seem opaque to you then surely you are         familiar with Qin Shi Huang, who in 221 BC ordered         the construction of the Great Wall of China.

Only centuries later have historians discovered in a post scriptum found near his gravesite,

"Maybe we should  build the wall North-South."  (Qin underlined the N and the S, a rare treatment in Chinese writing to show emphasis.)

And so, whether we follow the precepts of P.S.s or not, P.S.s have been with us and an integral part of our history. Nevertheless, it seems P.S.s are waning; lovers rather copy and paste than use a P.S. Rare the Romeo to P.S. Juliette. 

In l901 Victor Hugo wrote a Post-Scriptum and his poem you can listen to thanks to Bruno Lalonde in Quebec. Pay attention, Frenchies, to his P.S. before reading P.S.

Which brings us to the final question, can a P.S. appear at the beginning of a text, should not we be able to place them at the top of a letter's heading, call them "Pre-Scriptums", let's do something, or else, P.S.s will disappear from the face of this planet!

POST-SCUIPTUM DE MA VIE, Victor Hugo



La logique est la géométrie de l'intelligence. Il faut de la  logique dans la pensée. Mais on ne fait pas plus de la pensée avec de la logique qu'on ne fait un payasage avec de la géométrie.

P.S.S. By the way did anyone find my missing sock?

Hanniballs, Berlusconi and the Pope

He was ordained, the Chosen One

He had come from Carthage with

38,000 infantry, 8,000 cavalry, and 37 war elephants

Like his Grandfather not only did Hanniballs have to face

The extreme cold conditions with men unseasoned to the cold or mountain climbing but

Hanniballs croxxing the Alps

He knew there were 27 Bunga-Bunga girls waiting for him at the border of Menton

Enchanting, seductive Amazon Sirens

Fearless, they were ready to suck the trunk even out of Patraeus' Elephant

But Hanniballs was clever

He devised special crampons that allowed his 37 Elephants to go safely over a high Alpine Pass

He devised giant horse blinds in case his elephants ran into the Bunga Bungas

But Time was running short

Whereas his Grandfather hung l5 years in the Po valley eating truffles 

Hanniballs had to get to Rome fast

Berlusconi was getting elected on a bunch of lies and

The Pope was about to resign; the Vatican Papaless!

Rome would loose all morals

The Bunga Bungas would invade His Holy Quarters

Hurry Hanniballs, Hurry!

Fishwolf Poem

My uncle, who loved to drink tea

acted down and out complaining his head hunter had a 

pea brain                 he was caught red handed

for trying to steal the intimacy from the glory of

elves

And all the papers wrote about it in Geatland.

One day when the breaker of saucers cut himself

during an interview for a job                     

his battle sweat dripped (blood) on the desk

onto the floor of the conference room

he panicked and took to the whale road (sea)

but there was such a thick curtain of smog that he couldn't see the sky candle (sun)

so he lost his way and dove into a pub instead of mounting his horse of the sea (ship)

ordered a Chai latte with cinnamon and learned that the mead hall (pub) was going to close

The emptier of pints had long ago sang their songs

Those were the days when clients could boast of

hardship: seeker of fortunes, the Fort Knox of arms, the mender of bugs

and the healer of cats and dogs.

On a slight ginger buzz my uncle contemplated the joy of birds (feathers)

and the ringing of the needy

Where was a hunter when you needed one? he thought

A battle dance composed itself inside his head

He sipped another Chai latte as he saw a pretty

dwelling ornament (a woman) approach him by his side.

"Are you a ring giver?" she said in a husky voice

"No, I am a simple ghetto serpent" he replied

and with a quick move he danced across the pint plateau (the bar)

pretending to be a dragon with a flexible bone house.

"I am looking for my horse of the sea but

I got lost because the sky candle dipped

behind the curtain of smog

And thou, beauty of the retina, giver of chromosomes, babe of babes

Could you first guide me to the public receptacle of massive trash

As I have a cardboard shoe box to recycle

And as I am an earth walker without a sword's tree (warrior)

I would delight if your perfumed bone house would accompany me."

End of Part I

Cockroaches don't feel pain and neither do football players

Cockroaches don't feel pain. Neither do ticks.
People have been killing roaches, stepping on them, beating 'em with sticks
making them pop under their thumbs as they race up a wall,
pulling out their antennae in the hope that they will
get lost and never find their apartment again
that they will err
cross state lines
get run over on a highway or worse,
drown in a body of water!

Such suffering must be put to an end
and protection for these insects    and other higher
order animals                               is needed.

True, you may be an exterminator reading this piece
watching Monday night football or the Super Bowl and
savoring the painless action of witnessing
other neurons get clobbered
synapses crushed beyond repair
in the name of a Sport that exalts and celebrates the tackle  -however vicious-
between two hefty, jumbo athletes

Nobody is accusing you to understand the pain of a lower order

To empathize with neuro-transmission and consider it like a marriage

However if you continue to put acetic acid on the antennae of roaches

I will still respect you

I will judge based on what I can see (not feel) while
cracking the crusty crab arm that I have disjointed on my plate.

And if you believe that Jane Mansfield

felt nothing at her accident

Due to the devastating head injuries she sustained when her car rammed and slid under a truck
in pre-seat belt full-bodied sedan days

You may have a point 

She undoubtedly suffered more from having her career sidelined because Hollywood got 

tired of big-breasted bombshells and opted for the heady Shirley Maclaines

In the mid-60's Jane graciously slipped away to Las Vegas

Where the booze soothed the hurt

Just as today's footballers

seek the sooth without remembering what it was all about.

I want to be an Academic

     I 

                                                                                 want to be an academic

Let the World sense my Curiosity

Slalom through my passion

I want to show my Command

Unlike Moses

I've got tablets to show

It's more than rigor

Or blow by blow

I want to keep on dialoging 

Inlaying messages

into the ebony of mass transit

I am the A train of Desire

The paradigm of passion

The Aurora of Knowledge

My Eyes ingest 

So much that I need an appendectomy

My stomach recycles and grumbles

Viva Voce

Here I am 

At your door waiting for the rite of passage

On my cell contacts there is Osiris

It's not him I want

Nor Athena

I want You

The plume

The ink that runs from my veins

The racing clattering train

Clear of prejudicial sources

Fractaled yet structured

Producing astounding ethical results

Such as the percentage of salt erosion on disk brakes

In alpine countries 

As opposed to inter-coastal regions

With evidence of mathematical biological sequences

That finally will offer the unanswered musicality of

A broad wavy swath offering consistent and fundamental

Research now available to an audience that considers itself

Erudite if only texting, twittering and facing

Offer the same Stature as the libraries of Alexandria and New York

For this

I 

Demand

Recognition