After drinking a glass of bourbon, Calvin popped a videotape into his VCR and lounging back on his pull-out futon couch, he watched the large television screen crackle, then cleanse, and then brighten with a clear image of his dead wife Marcy playing Mozart's Symphony No. 40 on a baby grand piano. She was sitting straight and tall on a plush leather bench, spreading out her delicate hands in an effortless and graceful motion. Marcy smiled and fluttering her fingers, she pressed down the black and white keys with a deft, light touch; a powerful and full sound burgeoning from the instrument. Her cheeks were sunken like capsized buoys and her lips were pursed together tight. She wore a dark red dress and ballet shoes. Marcy played many chord progressions, swaying left to right, synchronizing her body to the rhythm. Her curly locks of brown hair tumbled down her bare shoulders, and her green eyes were trained intently on the sheet music, as though the notation possessed a hidden map that held clues leading to nirvana. She released her fingers from the keyboard and turning around, she said in a smoky voice, "Baby I'm getting pretty thirsty. Aren't you thirsty? Let's drink some water and I'll play more later, okay?"

Calvin reached over and lifted up the bottle of bourbon from the tabletop and poured more bourbon into his glass. He watched Marcy get up from the bench. Calvin’s arm shook as he drank the bourbon. Marcy stared right into the camera and winked. Calvin cleared his throat and heard a cheerful voice leak out the television speakers, and on cue he synced up his tone and inflection with the voice and said, "Honey you play like an angel, a beautiful angel. You’re so talented and you’re right water sounds great right now. I'll put some ice in your water, would you like that?" Marcy beaming a smile, nodded. She walked towards the camera and closed her palm over the lens.

The television screen blurred with gray pixels and white dots, and then faded into black. Calvin turned off the television with the remote, walked over to the VCR, and popped out the videotape. He stared at the tape and cried in silence, wishing that the video was longer than five minutes, so that he could hold on to a stronger memory of his wife. The tape was a worn plastic rectangle with black spools of footage that were frayed from repeated viewings; 462 times, equating to one year, three months, and five days.

Calvin remembered recording the tape on June 8th 2013, which was the same day that Marcy took her own life with a gun. He felt that the videotape preserved Marcy’s voice, her appearance, her piano playing, but what it didn’t do was reveal her motivation for killing herself. Calvin had searched through his entire apartment and he had not been able to find a suicide letter, which was frustrating and confusing. A letter could have provided him with answers. He wanted to know why she ended her life. Didn’t she care about him? Weren’t they happy together? How was she feeling at the time? These questions couldn’t be answered, but when Calvin watched the videotape, sometimes he felt like Marcy was speaking to him through her piano playing and giving him insight to her thought process. And sometimes he felt that she wasn’t speaking to him at all, and that if he kept watching the videotape, the reason behind Marcy’s suicide would haunt him for the rest of his existence. Calvin put the videotape back into the VCR, turned on the television again, and watched Marcy play the piano.

Due to illness that got worse-
I needed the assistance of a nurse-
Marcy visited me twice a week-
About my illness we did speak-
She helped me back on my feet
A better nurse I never did meet-
Marcy is super as can be-
Shows by the care she shows for me-
Marcy gives her best for me-
Made me better one-two- three-
Marcy is the best you can plainly see-
She takes great care of me-
THE END

Washingtonians, this Wednesday afternoon, come to the Starbucks on 1600 K Street to become acquainted with some young, interesting, average income level Asian American guys and gals. Instead of meeting Asian American doctors, lawyers, and consultants, you’ll meet Dr. Dre copycats, alcoholic paralegals, and T-Mobile wireless salespeople.

These guys and gals are looking to meet new friends that include: white, black, Hispanic, or any other race of people, just as long as you aren’t a F.O.B. Because after all, they don’t want to perpetuate the stereotype that Asians only hang out with other Asians. Just kidding, we love our F.O.B brothers and sisters! But **** stereotypes.

If you are a Washingtonian who likes drinking alcohol and smoking marijuana, stop by and make a new Asian American friend who will provide mixers and match you on a blunt. Please, do not ask these guys and gals for college study notes for Math or Bio, because all of them have dropped out of college to pursue their artistic passions, like: writing a novel about having a white group of friends and being the token who reads Tolkien and likes Toking; playing electric guitar in a grunge, punk, post-emo garage band with your black buddies who like Fugazi and bad brains but ******* hate Green day for selling out; and drawing sketches and painting portraits of the half-Asian girl you’re dating on a wide canvass, but really you’re secretly into selfies and taking photos of breakfast on Instagram.

We don’t discriminate against the kind of alcohol you drink, whether it be wine, beer, or liquor—within reason please don’t bring Franzia or Rolling rock, this isn’t college anymore. Yes, we get it, you’re highly considering attending this group because you’re a huge Haruki Murakami fan and you’re wondering two questions: are our Japanese American patrons also huge fans of the author, and do our patrons behave in a similar fashion to Murakami’s characters like Toru Watanabe and Toru Okada?

First, our Japanese American patrons are huge fans of Murakami and they own books like Sputnik Sweetheart and The Windup Bird Chronicle, but they also think the author often is obsessed with Western culture, in a way that possibly, and seriously possibly transforms him into a Brett Easton Ellis derivative based on Ellis’s American ****** and Glamorama.

Second, no these particular patrons do not behave like Murakami’s characters, because they’re real, living, breathing human beings, and not some fantasy figure or made-up person! But enough of the rant, please come though and let’s have conversations about jazz and talking cats.

While we respect Asian American actors like Ken Jeong and Randall Park, we really aren’t interested in having a lengthy dialogue about The Hangover’s Asian **** scene, or how Park was kinda offensively funny in The Interview. Although Park is awesome in Fresh Off The boat! All we really want is to just drink jack and cokes and smoke Marlboro lights and have conversations about the latest trends in indie rock and Hip Hop culture, and whether Citizen Kane was better than Casablanca, or vice versa.

At the meeting, we will have our guest speaker Jeremy Lin’s college roommate George Park answer questions about Lin, as well as a special appearance by Steve Yuen’s ex-girlfriend Marcy Abernathy who will give us an inside scoop to Yuen’s fetishes as well as his quirky habits. We will also be providing free snacks like LSD Pho noodle soup and Marijuana Mochi ice-cream. On a serious note, we’ll be giving out guilt-free Twinkies.

Before you arrive at the Starbucks, you’ll be getting a name tag and a free A.A.A T-shirt that wasn’t made by little children from China; instead, the shirts are made by Ronald Mai, our aspiring fashion designer whose twitter handle is @thatsmyshirtwhiteman! If you’re interested in coming out to the group our first meeting is this Wednesday at 6 p.m.

Leave your apprehension at the door and walk in with a warm smile, as you’re greeted by an expressionless face. And phoreal if your car is messed up and you require a ride, please call A.A.A’s number at (202) 576-2AAA (we know we’re phunny). Hope to see you there, and if you don’t come, you’re a ******* racist! But seriously come out and meet some cool *** people.

Marcy Shultz was a typist.
She typed and typed the day through
but never wrote a single thing.

Each morning she would drink her coffee
with a sunken ring at the base of the mug.

It was her good luck charm,
an assurance that at one point in one moment
someone had truly, honestly cared.

At noon she would salsa with the air,
knowing **** well that she would later devour it.

But the air knew nothing,
Thought nothing, just stood there.
Air is naïve, and she was alone.

At night she would shower with the blinds open
figuring if someone looked, someone cared.

But nobody ever looked, and Marcy never blushed.
She'd type little tales on her little laptop.
Typed little stories of little couples

walking dogs
kissing in park benches
laughing at rude jokes
eating tiramisu in little cafés
weaving stories of passers-by
carving initials in wood
waking up in the dead of night
to hear the rhythm of the other's breathing
before
holding each other's hands
and whispering softly in the light of the full moon
flooding in like spilt milk from the cracked window
saying,
"We are together now
and if a moment like this is happening,
then a moment apart is only imaginary."
Then,
always,
always,
always,

The little couples would make love.
Their moans bled through the window
like timeless cries over the milky moon.

The cats in the alley would circle about the songs
echoing loud from the little couple's little love.

Then always, always, always with frustration
Marcy Schultz would toss the tales and go to bed
and the couples would live on in crumpled paper.

Thank you little Marcy, my perfect M&M,
for showing these bones the sun yet again.
My velvet angel, you’ve let me touch the sky.
My little girl, you’ve made diamonds trickle down my eye.
What a wonder, what a magical world,
where you draw a breath, my darling little girl.

You Are Appropriately Named
    (But did your parents ***** you?)*

parental fortune tellers we be,
when in  the task of
appellation speculation
(a/k/a name that baby!)
we engage

we tongue taste old vintages,
and some new varietals,
look to the ancient biblical, Greek Gods,
a naming to affix and let it be
the reddest of good luck omens.

baby's future unforeseen and yet,
foretold, perhaps molded?

do we have any clue
of what we do
when, our children, we name?

Foolishly, we plot, we plan,
minor items, woman or man,
we leave in God's hand,
all the rest, content to accept
product of our cooking ***,
recipe of genetic seasoning,

but

when we christen them,
when we nominally oil
and anoint tiny foreheads,
we are choosing for them
whether they will be
annointers or annointed,
Samuels or Davids,
prophet or king

O irony!
'tis no *child's game,
or wordplay fun,
nor a zero sum decision elected,
is it construct, or destruct
the nominal we have selected?

the Oscar envelope is
star-delivered, and unsealed,
futures altered,
determined, revealed,
and for these tiny ones,
there is no appeal!

Think on it.

Endlessly debated, or not,
sources from a list infinite,
grandparent, novel, imagination,
origin indeterminate,
no matter,
we make them sweet or salt,
nuanced, threaded, gruff, plain,
confirmed, or perhaps condemned

do you honestly think there is
no alteration in their fate,
their course not rejiggered
when upon a suspicious world
we emanate them as
Ian or Nate,
Adolf or Shylock,
Jason or Jakob,
argonaut or patriarch,
Scarlet or Abigail:

we have chosen the
color of their visage,
color coded the A
of their alphabet unique,
the one they will speak
a hundred years on

the world's greatest rivers,
are mere droplets at inception,
a trickle upon Mt. Marcy,
becomes my beloved Hudson magnificent

explorers, through peril,
search jungles, risk all,
to find the "source,"
they comprehend,
it does too matter!

so too with human "conception,"
it's all, in the name,
genes be ****** and
habitat may alter animals in
a science laboratory a tad,
tho your heart you will consult,
best hire an ad agency,
for you have, a brand, created!

therein is the rub,
debate no more
tween nurture or nature,
what you nominate, rules,
for better or worse
for shock or awe,
for them, and alas,
for you

This then is the parental sin most original:

you need to believe in
open architecture,
but the first will be last
your selection is a
a table set,
upon which,
you will "re-past,"
many meals in your future
equal parts of joy and regret,
Parents, there is no substitution,
you, the menu have, selected and set





-

Me in jeans plus four others,
the nearest a guitarist,
black bag shape slung
over a seat, his sleeve
rolled high enough
to see a clamour of ink
in his skin, a ladder of colours.
He listens to music, white worms
lodged into ears.
Another, female, older,
glasses two-thirds down the nose,
much wrinkled Times between
her wrinkled fingers, glint of a ring,
the only one it seems, fatigue
rolling over her face.
The third, sweating, texting,
doesn’t look up, unaware to
anyone but the swirl of letters
on the screen beneath his eyes
where only he knows what exists.
The final guest is asleep,
or is pretending, head drooped
to a shoulder like a dog’s.
The train rattles on,
Monday night,
metal vessel of mysteries.
The musician glances up,
notices he is among a clutch
of others, sees me
and for maybe five, six seconds
does not look away,
his muddy-coloured irises
pouring into mine,
his boots scuffed with muck.
I cannot help but acknowledge
this unexpected attention,
but, flustered, I rustle for a book,
even though my exodus
is minutes away.
I flip to page sixty-two, he looks away,
and then back, swivelling, as if unsure
which way to stick, and there is
a fleeting stab of fear,
of what if in a shred of a second
he lunges across, a tattooed panther,
pins my wrists to the cold window,
spews his breath to my face
and grunts in that appallingly masculine way,
a way that suggests he’s in control,
ha ha *****, what you gonna do now?
when he wouldn’t be, I’d know.
I’d have a clear shot at the crotch
and even if the texter, sleeper, reader
didn’t spring to life, I could put a stop
to it, shove him from me like
yanking a piece of furniture across the room,
crank my voice into a bellow.
I can imagine the stupid mask
of shock on his stubbly face.
He could hurt me, of course he could,
anyone can hurt anyone
how they please, and I’m just as capable,
but I wouldn’t, shouldn’t
launch an attack of fists and kicks,
inject my words with venom.
This thought shrieks in my brain
and dies, squashed bug-like,
its pulse destroyed.
Always assuming the worst.
I’ll learn.
I don’t look at him again.
I don’t know if he looks at me
but he probably does,
thinking of a song he’ll write
or leftovers to eat,
or a missed opportunity.
The book slips to the floor,
for a moment, I forget,
I am being transported.
Everybody leaves, I am no exception,
standing, moving to the doors
that will open with a quiet whirr,
it slows and then a bit more,
bit more,
his memory of me
my ***, perfect in these jeans.
Typical. At least, I think,
it looks good.

It was back in…hell, must have been seventy-six?

Anyway, I was livin’ up around Bolton Landing

And doing some odd jobs (some very odd, indeed,

But that’s another story for another time)

At the Sagamore—big fancy hotel on Lake George—

When I started hearing people runnin’ their pie-holes

About this crazy-*** pigeon.  

Folks were saying the **** bird

Had somehow got ahold of the idea

That it was a ******* hawk or falcon,

Swooping down like it was after rabbits or field mice

Instead of bits of bread, and some of the old-timers

(Most likely addled by the years, or maybe having lived alone

For just a little too **** long)

Swore on the gravesof their dear sainted mothers

That they had seen it do full-out barrel rolls.



Well, little towns are all about big talk,

So naturally I wasn’t about to put much stock

In this particular rural legend—but one day

I’m walking around downtown,

And I see this chunky blue-gray blur tear-assing

Down around my pantleg for a bit before it leveled off

And started to climb, throwing in a couple of three-quarter turns

Just for ***** and giggles.



I saw that **** thing do its stunt flying

Several times after that:  loop-de-loops, death spirals

And a few more power dives, just to scare the women and children.

That old fool bird was pretty scuffed up and worse for wear

From its acrobatics—after all, it was just a pigeon

And it could daredevil from sunup to sundown,

But that didn’t mean it was likely to turn into no Blue Angel



The third, or maybe the fourth, time

I happened to catch the bird’s act

I caught a glimpse of its head, and I swear to you,

On all I hold true and holy, the bird was…grimacing,

Like it was just plain sick and tired of all the limitations

That nature had foisted off on fat, ungainly creatures like itself.  

Some days I would walk past the old McEachern place,

And I’d see that bird perched on an old, mostly-collapsed barn

Just staring at the cloud cover hiding Mount Marcy

(Where eagles lived in the crags,

Breathing the rarified air that pigeons,

Skimming the rooflines of strip malls, would never know.)



After a few months, folks stopped seeing the bird

And his wild-*** air show.  

Maybe it had been a bit slow

On the uptake while pulling out of a dive,

Or perhaps it finally came around to the notion

That a pigeon was, after all, just a pigeon, no more and no less.

Hell, maybe it set off for the High Peaks after all.

I’ve read that the ancients would read the entrails of birds

In order to tell the future, and maybe they could,

But in my book, ignoring the sweep and swoop of flight

And the mysteries of why-they-do-what

So you can ponder and mull over

The collection of bugs and gravel in its guts

Says about all I need to know about the notion of wisdom.

since the weather's been warming
up and everything's been blooming
again i got back to work on my
flower garden
and i planted each flower in a
certain order so
you can look at them
and hear a Marcy Playground
song play
i am truly the master of my own
destiny.

'Twas our
tribulation nigh
Marcy, and
eminent with
her belief
over which
train stirred
her mischief
that brightened
any hour
with vaunted
views and
her most
furry lark
scape suite
here in
New York.

*****

My wife looks like a vision of loveliness tonight
In a black dress clinging to her ***
Tighter then spandex
Legs encased in floral looking ***** hose
And manicured toes hidden under a work of leather and tiny bows
She does not look a day over 28
I am standing here talking to one of my collogues from work
This party was her idea
A few new faces down the street and she wanted to break the ice.
Marcy is sweet like that
All I really think about right now is how much sweeter it be to take carry her into the nearest room
Lock the **** door
And throw her on the bed
Strip off my clothes in a haste and take my sweet time with hers
Take in that smell of flowers, cherries and sweat
Its more potent then any other smell out there
Strip her till she only has on skimpy looking pair of underwear
And fear in her eyes
As her brown eyes grow big and dark with arousal
I want to rip off the last bit of cloth off with my teeth and kiss her all over
Kisses that will set her skin on fire and glisten
One by one from her navel to her lips
Get a taste of that cherry lipstick and wipe it clean
Bring my hands down to the smooth triangle between her milky legs
Legs that go on for days
Get her to squirm
Pant
Scream
and finally Release!

Hector is a lonely agent working for the CIA
Deployed to Angola, of all places
On a mission to recruit
The hangout for expats in Luanda
Is the Come Back Inn
The agency was looking for someone who would not arouse suspicion
He was also looking for love
Hmm, he espied a comely lass dressed in white, with a string pearls accuenting that beautiful neck
Can I buy you a drink?” he found easy to say
Marcy smiled and nodded yes
They were on their way
Doctors Without Borders had placed her there, she revealed
She was that kind of a good old soul
Dinner followed, then came a kiss
They were on a roll
It took a while for Hector to reveal
What he really did
He wasn’t a journalist after all
Did she like the adventurous life?
That sounded pretty good to her
She asked if he needed a wife
That sounded pretty good to him
Dateline: today
They live in a treehouse in Zambia
Baby is on the way
She’s still doing the MD thing
As for Hector, it’s a secret
So I cannot say

Mein kampf fraught re:
emotionally/psychologically challenged
impossible mission to cope
compared to classmates, I felt like a dope
and entertained escapist fantasies,
whereby Miss Rainbow
(sixth grade student teacher),
though robbing the cat's cradle,
she would abscond with me,
a shy skinny little boy
and we would elope
to a make believe edenic world
of blessedness, harmony, peacefulness...
yanking me out from
self made subterranean
hermetically sealed vault
analogous to being locked into
Plato's allegory of the caves,
this ascetic at shadows didst *****
subsequently...lifelessly dangling
at the end of his figurative rope.

Deep within the bowels of the Earth
immensely distant from the sheltering sky
amidst a thick fog enveloped landscape
with here and there a projected
craggy, derelict chasm
precipitously crooked
rocky claws pointing toward
an infinitely wide yawning abyss
dwelt kindred spirits
comprising a Soul Asylum,
where The Grateful Dead (albeit marked
via weathered tombstones)
hermetically sealed
once vibrant corporeal mortals
betook their eternal slumber.

One among their number
included a swiftly styled harried recluse,
who sported long straggly hair
bushy eyebrows shielding cold eyes of steel
scraggly bearded clammy chin
in tandem with a hairy body,
which when alive (long time ago)
upheld upon unshod feet a severely

hunchbacked ******
within dense pitch-black terrain
(Mother Nature enlisting
a menagerie of life forms
accustomed to hellish environment)
awash with unrecognizable
alien sights and sounds
mollycoddling bewitching warlocks,

mailer daemons, trolling trojan horses
imps of the pervert The Chieftains, fiery
long and fostered Golems,
who called underworld
their private demesne
also alluded to Marcy's playground
holding hostage Alice in Chains
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,

The Beastie Boys,
The Human League, and
Village People a Crowded House
emitting wisps of ethereal matter
appearing like a small medium at large
chatbot twittering, snapping, flickering
indeed joyus minions
exalting piety good and plenti.

Prone ounce sing proud purgatory
promoting protean phantasmagoria
hideous hulu hoop dancing holograms
highly distorted grotesque
silent screaming sinister banshees
slithering across escarpment.

Echoing from one end
of the universe to the other
putting to shame the initial big bang
ranking as a mere whimper
that original primordial blast
which cosmological exploits
generated heavenly sphere instantaneously
comparison viz Krakatoa times Googleplex
essentially reduced to insignificance
albeit on the analogous tinker toy

premised conjectures of brilliant minds
that could only gander feeble educated guesses
asper extraordinary natural phenomena
mortal mankind could never approximate
as belligerent threats
punctuated via nuclear warfare
merely rates as a flickr amidst
uber kindle jump/kick starting,
pinteresting snap chatting
tinder blinks, extinguishes,
snuffs out one lowly
Beatle browed bipedal simian.

Childhood campy chimera curtain call
subsequently hinting (based on accuweather)
the approach of blizzard squall
so burrow under quilted cover y'all
until warm temperatures arrive when springtime
ushers social media platforms
buzzfeeding earthlinked instant karma
jump/kickstarting linkedin outlook
twittering romance in the air that's zall
mother nature holds in store
after Old Man Winter
(lame as a duck this year)
attempts to make one last hooha.

Arctic bitter dead of winter cold
ice sole ace shun finds solitudinarian
to ******* (not prematurely)
shiver me timbers
cursing fate (and diagnosis of
schizoid personality disorder) for being alone
while polar vortex deep sub zero temperatures
freezes each lovely bone
excellent existential prized memory
swimmingly recalls boyhood

listening to drone
of various and sundry
en deer ring fauna
extant amidst greensward,
where imagination hath flown
to imaginary Eden lyft ting
uber a maize zing ears
cocked while doodling towards
Mother Nature's petsmart crafted chorus
flushing out soundcloud

queen of happy campers
with bees zee winged
wonders as they hone
suite tracks unstinting
well crafted aural presentations
intended to entice
a mate opposite jejune
targeting their search
nsync with one or another
favorable counterpart, this buzzing

destiny could favor a loon
or some other apropos biological entity
(or perchance if desperate
to mate) **** sitter
another species including the manifestation
of microbes on the moon
whereat boys and girls bounding,
exclaiming, and yelping
joie de vivre asper when counselors
blow whistle call at high noon
hour of day iz lunch, thence resuming

their made up fun and par lore games
such as knight in shining armor
dashing off to save
damsel in distress signaling
heroism asserts itself really soon
sans SOS and favorite ringtone
(emulating Fisher Price) tune
of potential prince
where young love doth Flickr
oblivious to a similar situation, aye lichen
to avast Marcy's playground.

Such panoply a prediction
forecast by Doctor Punxsutawney Phil
a blue oyster cult meme burr
thus, in layperson terms
six more weeks of winter for 2023 -
so stay warm to stave off feeling offal
bodes ill for species who clamor for warmth -
supposed tell tale shadow

spelt "N+I+L+L"
and remain in hibernation
if opportunities allow,
and be thankful for not bing forced to mill
around seeking warmth
(case in point a street person),
but ye and the big or 'lil
body of warm flesh adjacent to thee

(this day and age -
unlike stereotypical storybook account
about Jack of all trades and Jill
exhibiting traditional garb
many kin did instill  
gender preference a moot factor),
or take stock, stock and barrel,
how other creatures great and small

burrow underground under a hill
(shaped like an upside down pineapple)
or reef amphibians, mammals, reptiles...
instinct can remain
20,000 Leagues Under The Sea
a fictitious place evoked by Jules Verne,...
hmm...maybe he might breathe
courtesy of an atavistic gill,
who would downplay brouhaha
to avoid any cavil;
nevertheless any objectionable content
forward complaint to yours truly
stating point of view
before the end of April.

Deep within the bowels of the Earth
(dark visceral centre)
immensely distant from the sheltering sky
amidst a thick fog enveloped landscape
with here and there a projected
craggy, derelict chasm
precipitously crooked
rocky claws pointing toward

an infinitely wide yawning abyss
dwelt kindred spirits
comprising a soul asylum
where grateful dead (albeit marked
via weathered tombstones)
hermetically sealed
once vibrant corporeal mortals
betook their eternal slumber.

One among their number
included a hunched back misanthrope
who sported long straggly hair
(any resemblance between
said homeless bloke and
living social persons purely coincidental)
bushy eyebrows shielding cold eyes of steel
scraggly bearded clammy chin
in tandem with a hairy body

which when alive (long time ago)
upheld upon unshod feet a severely
hunchbacked ******
within dense pitch-black terrain
(Mother Nature enlisting
a menagerie of life forms
accustomed to hellish environment)
awash with unrecognizable
alien sights and sounds

mollycoddling bewitching warlocks,
mailer daemons, trolling trojan horses
imps of the pervert chieftains, fiery
long and fostered Golems
who called underworld
their private demesne
also alluded to Marcy's playground
holding hostage Alice in Chains
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,

Yes the super tramping Foo Fighters
a Cheap Trick courtesy Genesis
where Earth, Wind, and Fire
The Beastie Boys, The Human League, and
Village People a Crowded House
Emitting wisps of ethereal matter
appearing a small medium at large
chat snap ping, flickr ring indeed joyus minions
exalting piety good and plenti.

Prone ounce sing proud purgatory
promoting protean phantasmagoria
hideous hulu hoop dancing holograms
highly distorted grotesque
silent screaming sinister banshees
slithering across escarpment
echoing from one to the other
end of the universe
putting to shame the initial big bang
ranking as a mere whimper
that original primordial blast
which cosmological exploits
generated heavenly sphere instantaneously

comparison viz Krakatoa times Googleplex
essentially reduced to insignificance
albeit on the analogous tinker toy
premised conjectures of brilliant minds
that could only gander feeble educated guesses
asper extraordinary natural phenomena
mortal mankind could never approximate

as belligerent threats
punctuated via nuclear warfare
merely rates as a flickr
amidst uber kindle snapchatting
tinder blinks, extinguishes,
snuffs out one lowly
Beatle browed bipedal simian.