The 1950's kids' show host stopped his routine in mid-sentence.
Several young boys in the audience were reeling, laughing, pointing...
Captain 5 asked one what was so funny.
"Luther pooted" was the answer.
Another said, "Harvey farted"
The Captain, an English major, grinned and said:
"Flatulent assonance"

I have questions, like why do some go before me,
Or why is it that the hairs in my left nostril grow faster than those in my right?
What thoughts or images filled my mother's mind while she retreated into it,
Not recognizing those she brought into the world?
There must be signs
Somewhere,
For someone
As to how I can get answers.
But more importantly, are these the best questions to be asking?

Those bright streaks against the blue
Scratches made from huge diamonds, perhaps,
or simply the handiwork of something divine,
made in high silence.
I've seen those lines, etched straight across heaven's immensity.
But are they made from below or above?

The Donald lives for the bombastic
And rubbing elbows with the glitterati.
What he thinks so fantastic
Locates him square with the illiterati.

Beguiling all from North to South,
A heart of stone, black and iced.
Hate and mayhem spill from his mouth
Might The Donald be the Antichrist?

Raw war.
What is it done for?