I suppose I'll be in a Nursing Home one day
  drooling all over myself
And still plotting revenge on this world for
  having wronged me so,
Or maybe I might just be dozing, probably
  having another nightmare
I might find myself on a train somewhere and the conductor he suddenly
  announces
"Next stop Dementia City
After that it's Alzheimersville"
I'll awake with a start
And then...then I'll see her... this beautiful
  vision just walking in
Elderly like myself but still so ladylike
Still so lithe and graceful
I'll tell my Nurse to quickly get my false teeth
And my good wig
And my walking frame
And to give me a couple of those heart tablets
I'd think to myself "I knew she'd come... one
  day"
It'd be one last chance for Love... one last dash for Love.

So moving slowly but determinedly across
  the floor toward her
I'd probably get a pain midway
And then keel over
She'd not see me, she'd have her back turned
  to me
The Nurses they'd be showing her to her
  room
She'd be walking away
I'd try to call out but the words they'd get all
  garbled and stuck in my throat
I'd try to reach out to her... reach out like
  she's some mirage in the desert
My last gasp... my last gasp for Love
But...too late...
Too late, the Hero.

Perfect happiness’ greatest fear?
The Other is deplorable.
Extravagance is insincere;
Proust’s mustache is adorable.

I’m only up to number seven.
Uninspired, its time to bail
If Marcel P. was barred from heaven
His essays were a massive fail.

Marcel Proust, you silly fellow
Prose overwrought, effete and gay,
Puffy mama’s boy marshmallow
You’re Hell’s to toast . . . now roast away.

May virtue’s signalers all thus burn;
This uninspiring questionnaire
Will mainly cause one to discern
That heads are up their derrière.

True verse can never be a list
Of humanistic questions asked.
More fit that some psychologist
Should have their godless soul thus tasked.

On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose . . .

Networking, presenting the numbers
Adjusting the data for benchmarks
Reviewing best practices
Speaking vapid motivational drivel
Accompanied by pastel-toned slideshows
Full of dull corporate graphics—

   On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose . . .

Acting with intention
Staying centered
Celebrating balance and cultivating awareness
Curating selfless acts of charity
(yet still suppressing God at heart)
Being connected in authentic community—

   On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose . . .

Believing in yourself to achieve your goals
Seeking your own inner light to guide you
Recognizing how deserving you are
Working towards what makes you happy
(denying there will be a judgement of your soul)
Creating your own reality—

   On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose . . .

Ready for any feminist feat
In her ****-tube and starry skirt,
Wonder-Woman looks petite
(though probably ought to don a shirt)
In, fact we’d better make her black
Before her foes, unhinged, attack . . .

Go-go boots show off her legs
Muscled for emancipation;
And for bearing wonder-eggs
Through empowered ovulation.
Binary gender’s warrior queen
Bursts forth upon our sexist scene,

And bristling with the strength of ten
Of her not-so wondrous sisters,
She centers red-starred crown, and then
She’s off to fight the truth’s resisters:
Rosie the Riveter’s better half—
An old-school feminist sacred calf.

One who heard us was a woman named Lydia,
from the city of Thyatira, a seller of purple goods, 
who was a worshiper of God.        Acts 16:14 [ESV]

I'll say it straight to Alice Walker's face:
Veil for prostitutes and genderqueer beasts—
A color fit for hierophants and priests;
Symbol of both the decadent and base.
A hue unfit for tablecloths at feasts . . .
Scarlet is regal. Blue, too, has its place.
Let Thyatiran Lydia state her case,
But purple celebrates strange swelling yeasts.
No fault in bordering on indigo
As long as chroma stays within the blue.
But mix it up with red? Don't do it. No.
Yet, good contrast to yellow's golden grail . . .
What says the holy humble Murex snail?
Feel me: PURPLE is not the way to go.