A dear friend once asked
For memory's sake
That we share a picture.
Upon such request,
Camera in hand,
I intentionally left the cap on the lens,
And took the blank image
Remarking,
"Now you'll just have to remember."

Parody of A Red, Red, Rose" by Robert Burns

"A *****, ***** Cat"

O my Boop’s like a *****, ***** cat,
That was newly born last year;
O my Boop’s like the father’s fear
That’s constantly exposing her rear.

As cute art thou, my pillow case,
So damp in ****, am I;
And I will throw thee far, my pet,
Till a' the sheets air dry:

Till a' the sheets air dry, my pet,
And thy heat melt wi' the embrace;
I will ne’er sleep still, my pet,
While I rest, her **** frozen in my face.

And spay thee soon, my noisy Boop,
And spay thee soon tomorrow or now
Yet I will forget again, my Boop,
And be cursed with thy deathly meow.

Parody of "l(a" by e. e. cummings

e(               j(               a(
me             de             pr
di               ad             op
af               bla            ert
air              ck             yd
ne              bo            am
ss)             ys)           age)
qua            ust           tten
lity              ice           tion

I, the humble poet,
who counsels anonymously,
is cursed with complexity:
seeking endlessly
for structured simplicity,
trekking tirelessly
through modern mediocrity,
and examining closely
at psychological obscurity
and sociological hypocrisy---
aiming to teach attentively
to those who read closely.

Why is it easy
to casually disregard
the kind consequences
produced by
innate goodness,
that if a day may come
when a simple act
of honest, good will
would befall you,
that you would
so graciously accept.
Yet if provided
the opposite spectrum,
the few moments
of pain and betrayal,
would you assign
accountability to
the innocent majority?
Why is it that
when a good deed
is often performed, it is:
"Faith restored in humanity"?
As if we cynically
presume and accept
that the world is dark,
that all fathers abuse their sons,
that all mothers **** their daughters,
that all must fear at every second
as if good nature does not exist.
Do we take for granted
order and morality
up until misfortunate
consumes our souls?
Would it not be more appropriate
that amongst the immense
majority of good nature,
that a single occurrence
of negative circumstance
be dutifully deemed
a "Stain marked in humanity"?
I worry for those
whose perspectives
pervert and distort
the personal worlds
that there is a need
for faith to be restored.

She cried throughout the night
with her eyes the painter,
her pillow their canvas,
creating the most beautiful
portrait of you.

How such inspirations
deserve such art
is the mystery of love.

Contemplating life
over a hot bowl of soup,
my mindful mentor
passed me
the pleasure of oyster
to mix in with
the pain of chilies
stirred together by
chopsticks held in my hands.

There he taught me
the lesson of humanity
and the person's potential,
pointing at me
and then back at the bean sprout,
fiddling it in his chopsticks
as if he were God,
mentioning to me
"This sprout and you have plenty alike..."

"What do you mean?
How am I like a vegetable?"

He smiled and nodded to disagree,
"Life is not always physical.
Think for a second,
open your fragile closed mind.
Imagine this soup not just a bowl
but instead a cauldron,
the mixing of different elements,
sensations seared by heat
to create the luxuries we call
the world where you
are a mere bean sprout."

Looking at the small, colorless
tasteless, inferior plant,
I wondered, confused and asked:
"Am I so inferior in this world
that I cannot compare
to the rich flavor of beef,
to the nurturing noodles,
to the accenting spices,
but instead am no more
than a flavorless root?"

Yet my mentor laughed,
and patiently passed:
"You worry too much young one,
too much on yourself you blame.
Instead, take upon consideration
that the bean sprout is small,
fragile, tasteless like water;
there is nothing you can change
other than size and color,
but lower it into the soup
and patiently stir,
allow it to soak up the world
and obtain its potential."

I repeated his actions,
placed myself in the world,
sat patient and absorbed its essence,
and then removed it,
placed it to my lips.
Surprised that what I later discovered
was not a bland taste of disappointment arose
but instead what lingered to the tongue
was the sweet taste of near perfection.