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They called me Pluto from afar, and I,
Nameless and void, embraced the title
With the force of a thousand burning suns,
Each one like the star I loved ever so dearly,
An immense sphere of fire which had me
Helplessly, hopelessly bound by its gravity,
Caught in its orbit from the beginning of time.

They called me Pluto still from further still,
Speaking my name as the orbit of myself
And their water world drove us apart,
And I gladly, worshipfully rejoiced –
I had a name; I was no longer void.
I was distant still, but they called me Pluto,
And I wore my name like regalia,
A crown upon my lifeless skin.

They called me Pluto still as they
Waded further from the cosmic shore
That was their home, sending probes
That touched the regolith of Mars –
There was life, and light, spreading out from Planet Earth,
So I waited, hoping they’d come for me
Sooner rather than later, tomorrow and not two centuries from now.

They called me Pluto even as they stripped me of my name –
I was ‘planet’ no longer,
And I grew colder and bitterer as I spun,
Because I knew things they did not,
Things about the rise and fall of civilizations.
They did not see what I had seen,
They had not been watching
Since the dawn-time.

They called me Pluto,
And they cried my name
As I watched them burn,
The light of the flickering candle in the dark
That had once been humankind
Flaring, more luminous than the sun for one bright, shining moment,
Then fading.

They called me Pluto in the aftermath,
As if I were the God of the underworld,
Guarding their lost souls from my far-off perch,
Shepherding that which could not be led,
But I was not their God, even if I’d once fathomed them as mine.
So here I wait, patient, eternal, void and barren,
For them to leave me lonely when they no longer
Dare to speak my name from the realm
I am the supposed guardian of;
They called me Pluto.
You can find more of my poetry at caitlincacciatore.wordpress.com

Edited August 2017
Marieta Maglas Jan 2015
While the bud butterflies melt their wings
Within the light red poppy chain,
The pink-gray clouded, sad sunset rings.
In this lost sky, the sun's light vein
Is almost thrown in a ****** rain.


The leaving sun abandons the sky
For the moon, and in the cricket crawl
The leaves of the oaks whisper 'good bye',
While the coming night has a dark shawl.
She looks at the stars with a black eye.


The sun and the stars find synergy,
In the regolith on the moon,
But with helium fusing energy,
This moon looks like a big balloon,
Or like a fragile, silky cocoon.


And like those thoughts enveloped in words,
Or like angels carrying their pure love,
Are the Feathers of the Holy Birds
In that rain dropping the divine globes
On the strong souls needing love rewards.


Any epistemological sphere
Is pouring up to the Holy Book,
Or is falling down to disappear.
The reverse arch gets a killer look.
Tries to provide fragrance of fear.

The fluid, wicked waves draining in sight
On Earth to meet at infinity
Are like the dark rays in the pure light.
Light rays are arches of Trinity,
While dressed in wind seems to be the night.

Stars are candles and night lights them all,
The colors withdraw in the last light.
In the black darkness, they look so small.
The dream seeds germinate for a fight,
Becoming real while breaking their wall.

© copyright Marieta Maglas
Trinity,God, butterflies, poppy, sun,sky, rain,night,light,eye,helium,regolith, word, love
Jimmy silker Jan 27
I have not been what I should
Nor done the things I clearly could
I did not try to grasp the nettle
Instead stared blank into the kettle
Which of course did not boil
Still water with no hint of roil
I was and were and that still more
A passive shadow at your door
That would not knock
For fear of answer
A fool who would not take his chances
Deported to the moon
To forever sit
Infinitesimally
Buried
In
Regolith.
Julian Dec 2024
Ravaged ampelography in zuches of disdain protean verve quick refrain

Limericks serenade the uncial revet of revalorization promethean to any squirebell doormat notion of sanity whitewashed profane

Curdled lisp of avuncular bliss a kisswonk without coquetry amiss rattled by crotaline permanence sideration of nimiety leveraged by the wastrels calipace racecar palindrome faceplant ashes of stulm

Squalor cardimelech in seguidilla reiterated by satisdiction against affliction the culmination of craven swelters of mercedary spodomancy relishing each lacuna in the pleroma of doldrum

Spurrier springald winterbourne saffron sun gleaming in the brehon of desolate inheritance drawling on moonset glazes of gallimaufry

Wider eyes dovetailed segues between saccadic jettaturas jinking specular jiggermasts of bascule for brannigans of recess shivering softly

In the brooked maraud rampicks of fraud glozing with glissades of trichosis sublimated into shakuhachi lightning yerkas of downtrodden soboliferous suave treasuries yet to rob

Time bleak in blemish squalling in marksman primes of redundant infinity devoured by microwaveable cheddar Richter smog

Vivat moulins pregnant with rabid sabotage rummage the libkens of fossarian sinecure pontificating catholicons of selachian verve

Askew of largesse the mantissa of mangonels in distress of lineolated limpkin lugsails zuches surround in quidcunx become witness to pilfered but penniless nerve

Time frogmarched into macropicide kenspeckel to credenda and tacenda flummoxed by bewildered tokens of agiotage swollen with rank olid miscarriage of lampoon wed with the one coveted bassinet sassoon

Too many jamborees jilted with spurned coquetry of empowered vibrant ragdoll verbs swerving left into righteousness declared patently absurd by laystall laveers heralded but unheard by bonanzas surrendered to a hindsight glistening from an empty tomb

Sinking turtlebacks twire with tympany at every fanfaronade dodecaphonic with intricacy littoral to iniquity tralleyripped with vanitarian willowish thrasonical brattice bulging with bushwa and travesty

Sprent sphacelated towering monsters carouse in crooned weddings with piebald amnesty ribald with pointed amphigories in Indiana Jones’ tapestry

Sordid though it might burst tumescent with each sertivine jimswinging curse avowed to death upon which ghouls ghastly conclave must thirst

It penetrates the wielded knight’s shield buried in hemlock corruption of choregus in paroxysm in bruption for the last man known is counted the paragon of antebellum triumphs first known to Earth

Vauntlayed vastation of virgation the venatic principle of gossypine segregation sequacious to all ovations is the turnpike for ragmatical chomping warbles in loony saffron disguise dauntless in facility emblematic of videndum crossed by fertilized vernal vibes

Surpassed by fictions of scop the scorbutic ******* bronchos crops seedy with desperation upon millenarianism flocked and herded by flanger phasers heterochrony is livid of discordant pickthanks desperate to survive

Ingenuity plucky with imbroglio and boyg rattles the crotaline Esauline rhymes of rancor henpecked by subliminal cartels of verse and crime

Potvaliant cocktails ramble in synchrony with tantiemes of sybotic sondage the avizdanum of pilloried fortresses of indelible refugium of peerless gallops sidelong jostles of imprimatur’s best possible design.

Secretive boodle the presbyteries prized glamour apace of grognards lamentable in boltrope bonces brackling with insouciant crackles of amberjack vitality verdant with plumage in seeds sown by heydays yet known

Embroidered pulchritude of lurid passions wintry in spoiled care menacing a disarmament of spare tires careworn with wayfarers relying on the compass and square of typhonic gullywashers yet blown

Crafty clinkstone the cloture of cuculine calvous progeny of esemplastic harmony serrated by brusque rannygazoo bristling with acclaim shadowed by windows of bickerns of retinues of filigree over frame

Still motion “Godspeed” melismatic splendor flapdoodling in the afterglow of reverie gravid with slapstick revelry is the victim beyond culprits of vampires defamed of radical blemish and blame

Surrounded by the ulterior postern of potamic rhizogenic riddles whimpering in four-square davenport polders conflagrant with zazzy zuches of onolatry gilded by silly rebarbative pretenses of tinsel garb

Somebody tell this guy rapid routes of killjoy masquerade are easier to fossick from chiffon rhubarbs better than crabwise barkentine bards

Captains of hauberk cribble and cretify nebulous nyalas with nutation as grampus of grillage greaves digs many graves two yards flagrantly steep the grim reaper’s daily keep

As he sashays between moments of despair and propitiated care hallmark schadenfreude trounces every uneven charlatan sunken in debt immeasurably deep

The King’s greatest valedictory terpsichorean vivid maskirovka among Goliaths of penury wilting in etiolated despair conniving for siamangs among the beasts stook his majestic claim at the forefront of snide gravid with isangelous stake

The amplexus among the brittle brinkmanship of vociferous times sliding into rapid decay too many “Take On Me” racers swallowed their freight sloshing rattlesnake corpses in their vapid wake

A “Eureka” shouted from Denali eclipses the guileless betrothed witchknot of foraminated limicolous carapace to grimgoire and serpent driven by ambition personally fervent sidling like a hustler rambunctious on his mainlined craft

Cascading torrents of corsairs bulging squabs and sadogues ripples through sands of time hymns upon creaky cunning lickerish licentious sneers too implodent to carry their own graft

Hostage to history, self-reference is a mystery flanging the spaces between spaces of bars between swank lightyears of novelty predicated by girdled gammon on high

Trusty travesty rickety in creaky hinges of jettatura jinking around regolith sunken in oases of poor foundation scrimshanks the valleys’ apostles in countenances brave and wry

Wrepolis wavering in flagrant desuetude because of a brackish diseased tome the gnomes of nomogeny distorted by barnacles of specular afterclaps enthrone

Just like Denzel serenading togated gladiatorial carnage in Aceldama despite a fated brevity all his own

Such is the weighted carapace of a flimsy baragnosis of feted **** of vernalized harvests in turgid wapentake sprauncy with dapper Dons of donnism in rudenture’s slake

There is no vigilant meteoric promachos paragon grim enough to weather frostbitten venom sullen with quaky quakers rakish rake manumitting marsupial pedigree with roadhouse jailbreak

In the troves of time, point guards at the helm rescind the zugzwang engorging the coffers of coffles of catalfalque ballicatter ramshackle with counterfeit plaudit bonanza

Every rulership mismeasured by apperception quaky on premise and slipshod in design is a grauncher in convenient disaster supererogatory as conventional answer

But to this refrain we have no sanitarium ****** riveted enough with keelhauled subterfuge to sink disdain in bronzed frothy seas of poison as a mithridatism ratomorphism covets only when it sees

Time’s ultimate hamartia is sanguinolence brazen because it bleeds, craven because it bereaves and raffish because it believes

We must therefore believe the umbrage of toil, the limericks of our very soil siphoned by lavaderos of occamy lionized by too many a tour

No wound sours the mettle of men more vehemently than a manifesto pedigree disheveled of academicism bent on nihilism and profligate in its enumerations of things yet deplored

Time is its own recourse, and luck is its only measured score
Stephe Watson Dec 2018
There is within me
a moon-
a twilight Cézanne,
a barren Bhutan,
a dim-lit Rodin,
a mirage-less Sudan.

There is within me
a moon-
a post-war Japan,
a loveless Quran,
a last place at Cannes,
a Carson 'n couch
(without his McMahon.)

There is within me
a moon-
a 4th place finish in Laussane,
a certain Cohen sans his Suzanne.

a moon
a hunk of frozen rock, reflecting
gold sherd from all around
a spark in the dark, wholly drowned
the shiniest, hope-giving speck for years unbound

up close though,
should one
ever
dare to come
(of course none
ever
shall/have)
the sharp and unworn, no-color regolith

ever
alone, alone, alone he is
ever
on the verge of dirge he is

unhappily repeating to himself-
repeating to himself,
repeating to himself,
repeating to himself...

to himself,
to himself,
to himself...

by himself.
Poetry-ply / Response Ability /PooretReply


Thank you and a bow to
Heath
(AKA Taoist Poetry)
whose poem,
posted on 11/5/14
https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100005264928556&fref=ts
inspired what follows and which begins:

"There is within me
a forest man..."
tranquil Jun 2021
slept in ice for three hundred years
with three hundred tales to tell others of his kind
before tragedy struck
and the tardigrade was thawed out
by farmers clearing a forest with fire

tales of valor and despair
wisdom and knowledge
the last stories of his ancestors
forgotten and buried in time
washed away by holy water
in the name of a new diety

flickering lights on the last outpost
three hundred light years from what was once home
he wound his clock one last time
and released the beacon
unplugged from life support
sat on regolith, mesmerized with the view
of last star in galaxy going nova
Davinalion May 10
On August 8, 2017,  
by the Gregorian calendar,  
the weather in Chicago was awesome, totally chill.  
Dusk was settling in.  
Night was taking over from day.  
A cool breeze carried lake moisture,  
filling everything from edge to edge.  
Trees rustled their leaves like crumpled paper.  
Over the horizon, near a Target store,  
the sun faded, slowly dipping out of sight—  
darkness was creeping in to take its place.  
A black squirrel darted across the lawn by the park entrance.  
A bit deeper in, down in a ravine thick with wild berry bushes,  
a small, timid bunny hid.  
By the dumpster, fenced in with wooden slats,  
a sneaky raccoon was loitering with nothing to do.  
At the intersection, by the traffic light pole,  
someone’s engine screeched and sped off.  
Like I said, it was getting dark everywhere—  
night was rolling in.

Right then, Oliver, the cat,  
leaped onto the wooden fence,  
plopped down, letting his cocky tail dangle,  
twitched his whiskers, and stared at the sky.  
A full moon hung up there.  
Oliver squinted,  
opened his mouth wide,  
and swallowed it whole!

In the woods, not far from the city,  
wolves looked up and froze in shock.  
“How are we supposed to howl at the moon,” they said,  
“if it’s not there where it’s supposed to be?”  
They huddled up,  
sighing and grumbling,  
then wrote a notice  
and pinned it to every pine tree:

-------------------

Whoever brings back the moon  
and teaches that cat a lesson,  
we’ll give you some chickens  
swiped from Old Man Johnson’s farm.  
We’ve done this before, no scam here.  
Look, we’re attaching  
feathers from the chickens we nabbed  
to prove we mean business.  

The Wolves

P.S. Need eggs? Talk to Frankie the ferret.  
He’s always sniffing around Johnson’s farm like he owns the place,  
sneaks into the coop weeknights from 10 p.m. till dawn,  
and comes highly recommended by Rusty the fox!

The chaos that followed was unreal!  
Word of this spread like wildfire across the globe!  
It got so bad you couldn’t step outside—  
every passerby was trying to nab a cat, any cat,  
to trade with the wolves for a couple of stolen chickens.  
Who knows how this madness would’ve ended  
if the U.S. government hadn’t stepped in?  
They sent the cops after Oliver,  
cuffed his paws,  
locked him in a glass cage,  
and shipped him off to The Hague  
to face an international tribunal as a criminal mastermind.

In The Hague, they grilled Oliver for a whole year,  
then finally set a trial date,  
inviting every Tom, ****, and Harry to show up.  
They assigned him a lawyer—Sly Fox.  
Judges in black robes sat smugly at the bench.  
Guards with rifles hauled in Oliver’s cage.  
The prosecutor, defense, and jury took their seats.

The prosecutor spoke first.

Prosecutor:  

Oliver the cat is a clear and present danger to society.  
He’s charged with stealing the moon!  
His entire life led up to this heinous crime.  
I’m sure everyone’s dying to hear his story.

Sly Fox:  

Objection!  
Oliver’s past has nothing to do with this case.

Judge:  

Overruled.

Prosecutor:  

The defendant was born into an average family.  
Nothing hinted he’d turn into a ****.  
At his baptism, they named him Oliver.  
He was a sweet, cuddly kitten, went to school,  
acted like a good little Christian.  
But that didn’t last long—just a few months.  
Soon, girls and their parents started complaining.  
He couldn’t keep his paws to himself!  
The school kicked him out, his mom gave up on him,  
and nobody’s ever seen his dad.  
At night, he turned to petty street crime,  
and by day, he was hustling:  
scavenging city dumpsters for food scraps  
and selling them as “gourmet imports” wherever he could.  
From a young age, he showed a knack for shady leadership!  
Instead of doing his civic duty—catching mice—  
he teamed up with them.  
Under his command, gangs of ten to fifteen mice  
ambushed lone women at bus stops,  
and Oliver made off with their purses.  
Tons of cell phones, makeup, and credit cards passed through his paws.  
When he tried cashing out one of those cards,  
he got caught  
and sent to a reform shelter—basically juvie.  
Think he turned his life around there?  
Fat chance!  
In the shelter, he converted to Islam!  
Nothing wrong with that,  
but he only did it to blend in with the other inmates,  
who were mostly Muslim.  
He gained their trust,  
then started corrupting them—selling them bacon,  
smuggled in by his mouse cronies from the outside!  
Thanks to his cute face and fluffy tail,  
Oliver didn’t stay locked up long.  
A girl named Annie adopted him,  
falling for his meows and purrs.  
At first, he planned to bolt,  
but then figured he could run his scams better  
as a “well-mannered house cat.”  
Without telling his shelter buddies,  
Oliver converted to Judaism—playing the Jewish card to expand his market.  
Soon, he trademarked “NOT-BACON,”  
and his sales skyrocketed.  
When he diversified his dumpster menu  
and started frying bacon (dyed with stolen makeup),  
his business blew up.  
His little gang soon became  
an international crime syndicate!  
Oliver got canadian citizenship  
and started jet-setting like a maniac!  
He made two trips to Mecca,  
snapped a selfie with the Dalai Lama,  
lit a greasy candle at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem,  
and was spotted in the Vatican three times!  
There, he rubbed against a few cardinals’ legs  
and licked the Pope’s hand.  
Soon, Oliver’s business interests turned political.  
He funneled money into every party and movement,  
yowling loudest at both pro- and anti- rallies.  
Among other things, he was seen in Ukraine’s Donbas region,  
fighting in the conflict—  
nobody could pin down which side,  
probably both.  
And last summer, he was vacationing in Miami!  
What a ****!  
In every city he passed through,  
he conned his way into marriages!  
Look at his wives and kids—  
they’re in the front row, crying and begging for help!  
He doesn’t pay a dime in child support, despite his wealth!  
And to top it all off,  
in August 2017,  
with the help of Squirrel Sally as a lookout  
and Raccoon Ricky keeping watch,  
Oliver climbed onto the dumpster fence in his backyard  
and ATE THE MOON!

We still haven’t figured out the bunny’s role in this crime ring.  
Nobody’s seen him.  
Oliver needs to be locked up for good—or worse.

Judge:  

I’ll now give the floor to the defendant’s attorney, Sly Fox.

Sly Fox:  

Oliver should walk free!  
The moon just fell into his mouth when he yawned.  
He’s not a criminal—he’s a victim!  
He nearly choked!  
He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.  
It happens to everyone.  
Come on, he couldn’t have been where he wasn’t supposed to be.  
There’s nothing to discuss.  
Oh, and by the way—he’s not a cat, he’s a she-cat.  
Those kids? Not his.  
This trial should be thrown out  
because the charges are nonsense.  
Here’s his statement  
demanding a gender change.

We can’t let the global elite  
trample on the rights of those who are different!  
No to injustice!

(The courtroom erupted, chanting:  
“Free Lady Oliver!”)

Judge:  

Please, settle down.

Prosecutor:  

To prove this crime,  
we reached out to the global scientific community.  
Sadly, most bailed:  
Hawking pleaded disability,  
Dawkins said he was too busy,  
Perelman played dumb to dodge us,  
Geim and Novoselov told us to get lost,  
Feynman reminded us he’s been dead for years.  
Only Neil deGrasse Tyson stepped up—  
he said, “Sure, why not?”  
So, I’m thrilled to give him the floor.

Neil deGrasse Tyson:  

Ladies and gentlemen, this is…  
a total mess!  

I hate to break it to you—  
trust me, I’m not thrilled about this—  

YOU’RE ALL NUTS!  

I’ve been saying this for years,  
on the internet, on radio, on TV:  

GOD DOESN’T EXIST!  

HE’S NOT REAL!  

It’s scientifically proven.  
Stop kidding yourselves!  

(A court assistant hands Tyson a scrap of paper.)  

—Oh, my bad, looks like I’m here for something else.  
Let’s see… “August eighth…” hmm… “in a ravine…”  
Nah, we can skip that.  
What’s with the bunny, squirrel, and raccoon?  
Oh, here we go:  
“…ate the moon while sitting on a fence.”  
What a tragedy.  
So, what do you want from me?  

Prosecutor:  
We’d like you to tell us what happened to the moon.  

Tyson:  
To who?  

Prosecutor:  
The moon.  

Tyson:  
Ohhh, the moon! Got it.  
It’s gone.  

Sly Fox:  
Is there scientific evidence for this?  

Tyson:  
Weird question. There’s tons.  
Here’s one example:  

On the evening of August 8, 2017,  
the weather was perfect.  
I was chilling on my porch,  
sipping a beer, nice and slow.  
I decided to check out the moon through my refractor telescope.  
The moon was just a few meters from perigee,  
hanging out between Sagittarius and Aquarius,  
all cratered up, covered in regolith.  
Its librations were normal, within the tilt of its orbit.  
Everything was standard, beautiful.  
Then I ran out of beer,  
so I stepped away from the eyepiece,  
went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerating gizmo,  
grabbed another bottle,  
threw on a robe on my way back—  
it was getting dark and chilly, and I was just in my boxers.  
I look through the telescope again—  
and I see whiskers in the sky!  
Where the moon was just a second ago,  
there’s a hole, and I can see the stars it was blocking.  
I logged everything meticulously  
and sent my observations  
to the global astronomical community.  

Sly Fox:  
Did you get a response?  

Tyson:  
Nah.  
But I didn’t ask for one…  

Judge:  
Do you believe the cat ate the moon?  

Tyson:  
Well…  
That’s completely impossible.  
You see…  
The mass difference…  
How do I explain this simply?  
Cat’s tiny. Moon’s huge.  

Prosecutor:  
But you saw WHISKERS!  

Tyson:  
Yup, I did.  
But I can’t give you a scientific explanation for that.  

Prosecutor:  
Your Honor, esteemed jurors!  
Anticipating these difficulties,  
our investigators decided to help science out  
and present undeniable proof of the crime,  
so no one’s left with any doubts.  
Take a look at this X-ray of the cat.  

(Shows X-ray image of Oliver.)  

Look closely at his stomach.  
As you can see, the moon’s sitting comfortably inside.  
And get this—  
there’s still plenty of room in there.  
Oh, and it’s already a third digested.  

Judge (to Tyson):  
What do you make of this?  

Tyson:  
Well, yeah,  
that looks pretty convincing.  
And the cat looks… alive.  
Can I go home now?  

Judge:  
Sure, go ahead.  
Bet there’s still plenty of beer in your fridge—  
I mean, refrigeration unit.  

(Chuckles.)  

Just a joke, sorry.  

(To the courtroom):  
Alright, we’ve heard from the defense and prosecution.  
Now, I’m calling for FINAL ARGUMENTS  
from both sides,  
where there’s no chance for truce or reconciliation!  
I summon Donald Trump!

Donald Trump (striding forward):  

The moon is the property of ALL American people. Sorry!  
No debate needed!  
I promise to bring it back. I’ll handle it.  
If the moon shows up again—and I’ve always liked it—  
I’m not giving it to anybody.  
I’ll eat it myself.  

Half the American delegation  
erupted in wild cheers,  
while the other half stayed quiet,  
shaking their heads in disapproval.  

Trump:  

The moon theft is a national disgrace.  
It happened under the previous administration—  
let their leader explain himself.  
I’m passing the mic to Barack Obama.  

Obama:  

Good afternoon, thanks for having me.  
The moon is the result of humanity’s collective efforts.  
Its disappearance is a horrific crime.  
This is unacceptable.  
We can’t let it slide.  
We must all unite to ensure this never happens again.  
That’s my stance.  

This time, the other half of the American delegation  
burst into thunderous applause.  
Though the half that cheered for Trump  
hissed and stomped in disapproval.  

With that, the arguments wrapped up.  
The judges stepped out to draft their guilty verdict  
but returned quickly—  
it was all crystal clear to them.  

The head judge cleared his throat and began reading the verdict.  

Judge:  

The cat is guilty on all counts. He’s a THIEF!  
The cat is sentenced to death by hanging,  
while strapped to an electric chair  
hooked up to high voltage.  
Given the notorious resilience of cats,  
the following measures must also be strictly enforced:  
A lethal injection—er, shot—into his paw,  
and three soldier-executioners will fire four bullets each  
from Heckler & Koch ****** rifles  
to ensure the cat finally croaks.  
No mercy for this cat! As they say, tough luck!  
Justice doesn’t tolerate mockery.  
Considering other circumstances,  
the cat is also ordered to pay massive compensation  
and undergo gender reassignment surgery.  
He’s owed an apology—  
which he’ll receive while serving a life sentence  
in the courtroom…  
—Uh, no, sorry—  
While serving a life sentence. Period.  
—In the courtroom…  
—Pardon, what a mess.  
I think I mixed up the pages.  
(To his assistant)  
Is this right?  

(Adjusts glasses and continues reading.)  

In the courtroom,  
he must be immediately released—  
so he doesn’t suffer,  
and everyone walks away happy.  

(Looks up at the room.)  

I hope I didn’t skip anything and read it all.  
Since the points of this verdict  
contradict each other,  
they should be carried out in any order.  
The form doesn’t matter—it’s the substance that counts.  
You can’t fool Justice.  
Don’t take us for fools, and we won’t take anyone else for fools.  
The goal is to restore fairness and punish evil.  
I’m confident we’ve punished and restored,  
even if it took tremendous effort.  
Long live the adversarial judicial process!  
The cat, as they say, is toast—because the moon’s no mouse.  

Everyone turned to look at Oliver’s cage—  
but THE CAT WAS GONE.

The guards, armed with rifles and pistols,  
rolled their eyes in confusion, muttering into their radios,  
as if asking someone how this could’ve happened,  
but no answers came.  
Meanwhile, Sly Fox, the lawyer,  
slipped through the crowd of spectators toward the exit  
and hasn’t been seen since.  

From the start, he’d figured  
this case was a lost cause and Oliver had gone too far.  
So, keeping his cool,  
he decided  
to bribe the guards with Bitcoin,  
so they’d act all shocked and bewildered  
while letting Oliver slip out of the courtroom.  

At first, the guards were outraged by the offer.  
“Stealing the moon is a heinous crime!” they said.  
“People are suffering! We’re not letting this cat go, no way!”  
But Sly Fox countered their objections:  
“You won’t get in any trouble for this!”  
And just like that, they agreed.  
And, true enough, they faced no consequences.  

As for Oliver, he bolted out of the courthouse,  
called an Uber, zipped to the airport,  
snuck into the luggage compartment of a plane,  
wormed his way into the cockpit,  
hopped into the pilot’s seat, fired up the engines,  
deployed the ***** and all the fancy gizmos,  
and flew back home to Chicago to his owner, ANNIE!!!

--------------------------------------------

Little Annie, smart and sweet!  
Go to sleep, it’s dark outside.  
Mom’s getting mad, she’s had enough—  
tucking us in’s no fun anymore.  

Hop into bed, make a cozy little nest!  
Look—out the window, past the curtains,  
see the moon floating above the horizon?  
Well, that moon—it’s NOT REAL.  

It’s staring at us, all suspicious-like!  
NASA engineers painted it on  
a plaster ball, coated with shiny paint,  
and launched it into orbit by Ken Harris.  

Every kid from Mississippi to the Yukon knows it.
Every parent, every scientist—
Einstein, Galileo,
Every teacher, every critter in the woods—
bunnies, raccoons, even that smug squirrel,
Every boy and girl, every politician, every judge — all know it.
You and I know it -

that the real moon—
the one that blazed in the night sky,
the one that lit up the world—
well, last August,
right between sunset and sunrise,
in front of everyone and everywhere,
with his big mouth wide open, -

IT WAS GULPED BY OLIVER THE CAT.

There he is, lounging on the chair, licking his chops, the charmer—  
purring and smacking like a pro.  
Be careful with him: give him a finger,  
and he’ll chomp your arm up to the elbow.  
But don’t blame him. He’s just a cat,  
not one to fret over boring morals.  
When something floats right into your jaws,  
it’s hard to say no.  
I’m no different—I grab what I can,  
hold tight to what I snag,  
and I’m not throwing stones at that cat,  
lest they come flying back.  

I’m drifting off with you, not thinking of a thing,  
already half-asleep, unsure of what’s what:  
is it night finally chasing day away,  
or day swapping places with night?  
I’m stumbling through this sleepy haze,  
can’t make sense of it all—  
did Oliver really gobble up the moon,  
or did the moon swallow us all?  
And now, tilting its head just a bit,  
it gazes down, full and satisfied, on the sleeping city.  
Sleep now, my little bug, I love you  
because I’m REAL.  

We’ll snooze, we’ll lounge,  
wake up tomorrow and have some fun,  
play with the stolen sunlight,  
say a prayer, make up with friends,  
then change our minds and bicker,  
rejoice in life—  
because it’s OURS,  
and we’ll shout it loud—IT’S HERE!  
Look, the Creator’s got the whole sky held hostage:  
where’d He swipe all this for our sake?  
So let’s thank Him for the light, the water,  
for our daily bread, for Wi-Fi,  
for what we have and what we don’t,  
for the tiniest sliver  
of what’s left of the moon,  
for the dark of night, for the blue of the sky,  
for the gifts of life, for the losses of death,  
for the pile of temptations and trials.  
Let’s thank Him for it all.  
Amen.  

And for that sly cat, too—  
who we’ll scratch behind the ears, shake a fist at, sigh over,  
and then, finally, go to bed.  

How much more of this nonsense can we take?  
This story’s worn me out.  

School’s tomorrow.  

GOOD NIGHT!
Julian 2d
Prayers 7/19/2025
God Almighty, Father in Heaven…
Allah Almighty, Peerless in Creation and Wonder….

1. Castigate the Reprehensible Lickerish Visagist Plasmamium Scofflaw Bridled Turpitude of Numquid Nepotation Collieshangies Might the Feral Totter into Brackish Massacre of Lewd Profligacy Shattered By Ironhanded Blowback of Destitution And Dilapidation Such that the Mettle of Macarism Overpowers the Steamy and Seamy Constellations of Hollow Diatribes and Shrill Shibboleths To Ensnare the Ensnaring Encroachments Forever Futile in Recast Disrepair.

2. Herald the Beckoning Knelling Waves of Swollen Salvation the Hospice and Sanitarium of Noble Rations and Ratiocinations Shared Widely to Enthrone the Bronteums of Hylozoism in Compassionate Even-Keeled Ratomorphism Respectful of Integral Aretaics Invictive in Ipseity Might the Halations Widely Known to Every Fulgurant Wonderwork Dazzle and Bedizen the Commode of Faithful Liturgy Keystoned into Theodicy Worthy of only the Highest Esteem Perdurable to Vicissitude and Regnant and Rigorously Rigid to Every Seismotic Joggled Regolith of Insidious Opprobrium.

3. Unleash a Barrage of Newfangled Miracles Peremptory to the Docimasy of Baseline Pyrrhonist Potemkin Village Gainsay Such that Matachins Whorling Around Magnanimities and Magnalities Magnetizes the Cynosure of Radical Contraction of Immanentism in the Habitat of Verdure and Melismatic Plangent Handspiked Jarabes Might Every Ghawazi of Kymatology Supersede Ignorant Titanist Agnosticism With Sturdy Testimonies and Covenants With the Unseen Cryptodynamism of Bellwether Efflorescence Evergreen in Gamuts Always Protracted to Encompass a Wider Swath of Improbable Elements Appended to the Discrete Set of All Possible Vicissitudes.

4. Enlarge the Acumen and Prestige of Ballasts of Mainline Marivaudage Vauntlaying Tribunes of Bravado and Bravura to Enchant Distant Fringes and Galloping Forthright Honest Contemplation to Secure the Birthrights of Nimbose Gullywasher Cascading Quixotic Quirks to Graph the Mantissa of Phugoid Campanile Aleatory Humdingers Such That The Orbit of Lionization Circumferences the Wider Domain and Palette of Creative Verve Forever Suspended Above Rectiserial Debaucheries in Sincere Elegies of Plight and Paeans of Pulchritude Alloyed With Valor and Vigor.

5. Make Evident and Manifest an Abundance of Miracles at Every Opportune Juncture to Heave the Whiplash of Abeyance into Completion of Foretold Umbels to Synoecize the Garrulous Fountains of Wisdom to Synergize on Proper Conjecture to Unite the Kingdoms of Heaven and Earth!

— The End —