Offensive Billboard Removed By Courageous Bigot(s)

Before:

After:

Story.

It almost made me ill, Lord,
What I saw up on that billboard
Down at Poplar Ave and High Street, as I drove along today;
I was passing by, commuting,
When I saw a man saluting—
In a uniform and everything—but doing it while gay!
It’s offensive and disgusting,
How he’s standing there, just lusting
(You can see it in his eyes, I think, or maybe in his smile)
We must all protect the children,
Who must find such smut bewild’rin’,
And remove these homo billboards as offensive, crude, and vile!
Must we really see gay faces
In our normal, public places?
Must they rub it in our faces that they’re living in our town?
It could jeopardize the traffic,
Standing there, all pornographic—
For the benefit of everyone, I had to tear it down!

I’m all for the First Amendment
But the messages these send, meant
That my children might think homos are the same as you and me
So I used my free expression
To remove their indiscretion
Now the Memphis that we live in is decidedly more free!
There are other billboards out there
That the world can do without, where
People see them on their way to work, with children in the car—
Why, it’s bordering on criminal:
A sign on which two women’ll
Be saying that “We’re married, and God loves us as we are”!
I’m not normally so pensive
But these signs are so offensive,
And what’s worse, they’ve got me thinking, which I really hate to do!
If the message is far-reaching,
What a horror that they’re teaching—
What if people start believing it… that gays are normal, too?

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(I could have sworn I saw this story on CNN.com, but it is not there now. Poor memory? I certainly hope so.)

An Answer In Limerick Form

Hmph. PZ gets the emails; I don’t. He gets two-inch putts handed to him; I don’t. So, since he posts his email, I guess I’ll just take the chance and respond to it anyway. “Advice for Atheists” indeed. I refuse to use Comic Sans, though.

1. Stop being so smug.

This “smugness” to which you object
I’d invite you to closely inspect:
Go on, open your mind,
Take a look, and you’ll find
It’s not smugness—we’re simply correct.

Your description’s a bit of a mystery
When compared to a glance at the history—
You know God’s mind so well
You consign us to Hell
And think it’s our rhetoric that’s blistery?

You claim to be humble and meek
Though for God you’re entitled to speak
In that book on your shelf,
Jesus says so himself!
There’s hypocrisy in your critique.

2. Don’t assume every piece of Christian evangelism is directed at you – we want the undecideds, not the decided-uns.

Imagine my shock and dismay—
It’s not me that you want? Well, ok…
But we still may collide;
See, I can’t stand aside,
So I’m here—between you and your prey.

“Undecideds” deserve to be free
From your bronze-age mythology, see?
So although you’re upset
That I pose you a threat,
I’m afraid that we’ll never agree.

3. Admit that the debate about God’s existence is complex – and that it can, depending on your presuppositions, be quite possible for intelligent and rational people to intelligently believe in an intervening deity who communicates through a book.

This is something I’ll surely admit—
One could think that a god was legit,
And may speak through a book,
Into which you may look…
If your presuppositions were shit.

Well, of course the debate is complex—
Why, the rules are designed to perplex!
An omnipotent being
Who hides from our seeing?
Of course such a concept should vex!

I have a book, too, you could buy!
And I’m really a reasonable guy—
If you’d just call me “God”
(I’ll admit, it feels odd)
I would (unlike Jehovah) reply!

4. Admit that the scientific method – which by its nature relies on induction rather than deduction (starting with a hypothesis and testing it rather than observing facts and forming a hypothesis) – is as open to abuse as any religious belief, and is neither objective nor infallible.

While it’s simple to suss out your aims
As your strawmen are playing at games
An empirical test
Can put questions to rest—
Are there any to question your claims?

You may claim we are one and the same,
Though I think you know better—for shame!
Unless you will admit
Your faith might not mean shit,
Then your challenge is nothing but lame.

5. Try to deal with the actual notions of God seriously believed in by millions of people rather than inventing strawmen (or spaghetti monsters) to dismiss the concepts of God – and deal with the Bible paying attention to context and the broader Christological narrative rather than quoting obscure Old Testament laws. By all means quote the laws when they are applied incorrectly by “Christians” – but understand how they’re meant to work before dealing with the Christians described in point 3.

Your advice would be all sorts of fun
If, indeed, such a thing could be done!
With cacophonous voices
Of myriad choices
You want me to stay true to one?

Just imagine my terrible plight—
I must find the religion that’s right,
Though the simplest look
In a history book
Shows, for centuries, all of them fight!

It is more than a little bit chilling
When one sees how incredibly willing
The believers in God
From an alternate squad
Are disposed, for His sake, to do killing!

So please tell me, now, which one is true?
I would be as enlightened as you!
I would argue just one
(It would really be fun!)
And I’d do it, if only I knew!

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“Is God Dead?” Redux

At the US News & World Report website, the “God & Country” column has a couple of recent stories of interest. Of course, there is the poll that PZ links to, but there is also a brief bit on the recent death of John T. Elson, the Time magazine editor responsible for the “Is God Dead?” issue. Poking around through various different obituaries (here, for example), I find (not surprisingly) that the firestorm that erupted around that issue has not subsided. People are using the comment threads to Elson’s obituaries as a forum to continue their arguing (I almost said “continue their debate”, but that would not be true).

So, is God Dead? I say no. Something which was never alive cannot properly be said to be dead; trees may be dead, but not stones; birds may be dead, but not clouds; people may be dead, but not living-room sofas. If we may say God was alive through the thoughts of believers (the “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus” version of being alive), then God is still not dead, because there are still believers.

Which brings us back to the poll. “A new survey says a quarter of all Americans are likely to claim to have “no religion” within 20 years. How do you view the boom in Americans without a religious affiliation?” With fewer and fewer believers, is God (in the “YVtiaSC” version) dying? Answer: mu. The question is useless. What matters is the actions of those left who do believe, whether they are a huge majority, a bare majority, a large minority, or even a handful.

The sort of true believers who will never spare the rod
For they know that they are following the sacred will of God;
Devout and faithful followers, the ones for whom Christ died,
Or the ones who know that Allah will be watching them with pride,
The servants of Jehovah, who see prophecy fulfilled
When they look upon the legions of the heathens that they’ve killed,
The good and gentle pilgrims who burned witches at the stake
Which was only right and proper, and was done for Heaven’s sake;
The powerful inquisitors, the torturers, the beasts,
The sexual molesters who still hide among the priests,
Fanatic true believers, who, as part of Allah’s powers
Would hijack planes and crash into the World Trade Center towers
The actions of believers, and the deeds of the devout,
If you’ll pardon me, are things that I could really do without.

GOLD!

I have been waiting for this one. There have been hints in the news, then announcements that announcements were to be forthcoming, and finally there are pictures and stories and everything: a huge Anglo-Saxon gold hoard has been found! This past July, in a farmer’s field, by a metal-detecting enthusiast, Terry Herbert.

I have used a metal detector a grand total of once, years ago. A friend had made one from a kit, I think, and had planned to make a living (that summer, anyway) walking up and down the beach and finding buried car keys, watches, and other things that tourists would gladly pay him lots of money for. I don’t think anything actually ever came of it. My friend gave up too quickly. Mr. Herbert, on the other hand, has been at this for 18 years! I would love to know what sorts of things he has found in that time, to keep him going.

But back to July’s find. Over 5 kg of gold, over 2.5 kg of silver, and seemingly all of it significant. The metalwork is superb, and the collection large enough to suggest that this belonged to someone of real importance. It includes the gold decorations from sword hilt plates and pommel caps, buttons, cheek plates (or at least one) from a helmet, armbands, crosses, and more (check out the slide show at that link–I don’t know how to link to it directly. Most stunning to me is the photo of a couple of pieces of the treasure sitting on the surface of the field, having been plowed up by the farmer. Just sitting there. Beautiful, historical, ancient, gold). It appears to be primarily if not totally a male collection; trophies from battles (one, or several?), as described in Beowulf. The collection includes “boxes and boxes” of items, literally hundreds of individual pieces. Many, I am sure, would have been significant finds by themselves; taken together, this is staggering.

Terry Herbert took his gear
And set out for the field;
He had his hopes, but no idea
Of what the day would yield.
For eighteen years, he’d searched for coins
Through rolling hill and fold,
When in the field of a farmer friend
This summer, he found gold.

The largest Anglo-Saxon hoard
To date, is what he found.
Five kilograms of gold, and more,
Lay buried in the ground.
Gold fittings from the hilts of swords
Inlaid with precious stones
The trophies of a battle?
There are still a few unknowns.

As treasure, art, and history,
This find is just immense.
The Queen, by law, now owns it,
Though she’ll pay a recompense.
And Mr. Herbert’s place is sealed
In the annals of collectors;
Me? I’m investing in whoever sells
His brand of metal detectors.

On Prayer (And Introducing A Real God)

“In prayer, you should stay silent.” ”No, you have to pray out loud!”
“Your thoughts, you share with God alone.” ”No, share them with the crowd!
“Your prayers must follow models; you can’t make them up yourself!”
“If prayers are from the heart, then leave the Bible on its shelf!”
“Your prayers are adoration to the lord, thy God, above!”
“If you ask, it shall be granted, be it health, or gold, or love!”

With all the disagreement on the proper form of prayer,
It’s enough to make you wonder if a God is really there.

So, yeah, the New York Times Sunday Magazine has a story today entitled “The Right Way To Pray?“, with the tag line “Americans aren’t sure they know how to talk to God. Fortunately, there is plenty of instruction available.” Not “Many Americans”, or even “Most Americans”, let alone “Some Americans”. Americans. So I guess I am not sure I know how to talk to God. Fortunately or unfortunately (see how easy that was?), there was this article to enlighten me.

(Oh, there was also a link to the comments section, with the phrase “How do you pray? Share your experiences.” Again, the assumption is there, taunting me.)

The article, predictably, found that the “plenty of instruction” often disagreed (but one is left with the notion that, no matter how you do it, it is better to pray than not to… even though the author does not pray, himself). Even better, the comment section disagreed. Not nearly enough atheist voices among them for my taste, but that is just me, and you will recall from above that I do not know how to talk to God.

Anyway, I have come up with a solution.

Part of the problem, of course, is that these people are talking to a fictional entity, and asking for advice, or saying how cool He is, or asking forgiveness of Him rather than of the person they slighted. They aren’t getting answers, because they might as well be asking the Cat in the Hat. So, it seems to me we need a Living God. And heavy though the burden may be, I am hereby declaring myself to be a god. Maybe the only one, for all I know, but I do know that I exist, and that I can give advice, and that I can declare myself to be a god.

So. The first question, then, and the reason for me being a god in the first place, is this silliness about “what is the right way to pray?” No more asking a mute god and getting to make shit up; I am a god that will actually give an answer. There is a right way to pray, and as soon as I decide what it is, I will let you know.

Ok, I have decided.

First, I don’t want you praying to me at all, although I will tell you how to if you must. You see, most of the stuff people pray for, I can’t give you. I’m not omnipotent, nor omnipresent, nor omniscient. There is a name for the sort of god who is those things. Fictional. Me, I’m just me, although I am now a god. Because I said so. Exactly the same authority as any other god.

So, no praying to me except in conditions which require you to. For instance, if a different religious group gets permission to pray in public school, and in order not to violate the establishment clause of the First Amendment you need to have an official prayer to me (by the way, in situations like this, I not only will accept your prayers, but I will demand them–I am not a fickle and jealous god, but if I were there would be plenty of precedent). If your principal or superintendent doubts your religious sincerity, have them call me. I will assure them that, yes, I am a god, and yes, I require a very particular prayer ritual. Should they question it, I can only ask that they likewise question any and all other religious rituals from other gods.

The ritual? Oh, it is fairly simple. You take a relatively small animal (a large rabbit, for instance, or a small lamb), and have two strong people hold it firmly. While shouting, loudly (if at school, I require the public address system to broadcast the entire ritual), the verse “The Octopus Gods“, repeatedly, but slowly, stab the creature with a well-sharpened number two pencil. The goal is to get it to scream, loudly and horribly, as it dies. If it takes a while, repeat the poem.

I very seriously do not anyone to pray to me. I sincerely hope this ritual is never used, not even once. But it is the only proper way to pray, according to this self-declared god. And if any other religion gets their prayers in public school, I want mine there too. Well, actually, I don’t, but the law is the law, and if one religion gets in, we all do.

It occurs to me that there are some other benefits of being a god. For instance, one of the chief uses of gods these days is as someone on whom to foist unpopular or immoral decisions, like “God told us this was our land”, or “god hates fags”, or “god wants us to kill abortionists”. Well, I’ll have none of it. You see a guy with a “god hates fags” sign, I can guarantee he’s lying, and I am happy to be quoted by news outlets. No more “god was unavailable for comment” (wouldn’t that actually be nice to see in a story); next time a tortilla gets scorched, Fox News can call me to confirm or deny. Hey, I won’t lie–if I actually did do it, I’d admit it.

I can’t really offer forgiveness, but then neither can the fictional gods. I can, however, tell you to go and beg forgiveness from the people you hurt, and to work to make it right again. Yeah, not what you want to hear, but the alternative is admitting that all that praying to the fictional gods was just to make yourself feel better.

Hmm… Just thinking…. I may have to change the “tip jar” into “tithes and offerings”.

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Suppose You Found An Actual Alien…

Daringly, erringly,
Children in Panama
Saw a strange being, and
All held their breath:

Certain the creature was
Extraterrestrial,
Showed they were human, and
Beat it to death.

In some of the pictures, the “creature” looks like E.T., or “a fetus”, or some unidentifiable alien being. In the video, it is fairly clearly (to my eye, anyway) a three-toed tree sloth. But “teens beat sloth to death” is not nearly so cool a headline as “unidentifiable creature found in Panama” (the title of the linked video). Note the use of “unidentifiable” rather than “unidentified”; a small but crucial difference.

There are a great many stories already, and there will be more. Even CNN is going with the “unknown/unknowable” angle. As of this writing, Google news lists a mere 120 news articles. Any bets?

My favorite coverage thus far is this nicely skeptical article:

The story begins at a waterfall near the town of Cerro Azul, Panama. A group of teens, four in all, were playing in the area when the mystery creature, a large hairless monster, shuffled out from a cave hidden by the waterfall. According to most accounts, the creature approached the boys. Growing alarmed, they began to throw rocks at the monster. They continued to do so until it — Gollum, E.T., monster, whatever — stopped moving. Satisfied that they had killed the hairless mystery creature, the Panamanian emissaries of Earth tossed E.T. into the water.

But in all the pictures being circulated on the web, E.T./Gollum looks more like a hairless sloth (and has been identified as such by many who have seen a full body picture of the Panamanian mystery creature), which means that the animal moves at an extremely slow pace (it is difficult to move across the ground on its hooked-claw feet). Which means that the teens might have been alarmed when they first saw the creature but could have easily outran it, so remaining frightened at something that presents no real danger probably did not occur. And they certainly did not have to pelt the mystery creature with stones until it died. That the teens decided to make a sport out of hitting the mystery creature with rocks sounds like a typical teen reaction. But it is doubtful they did it out of fear.

So they lied. They’re teenagers. It’s what they do best, besides eat and sleep and whine about being bored.

There are other news outlets showing evidence that it is a sloth:

…

Nevertheless the local media has played up the story, reporting that zoologists are unable to identify the “alien-like” creature. But DNA testing should soon confirm what most are saying: the animal is a sloth.

As a consequence of a slow news cycle towards the end of summer, August and September tend to be peak months for sightings of “strange” and “unidentified” creatures including unusual marine life, malformed animals and the mythological beasts like the Chupacabra, the Mongolian Death Worm, Big Foot, and the Loch Ness Monster.

I wonder how long it will take CNN to correct themselves?

It’s a sloth. They are teenagers. Ignorance->fear->kill it. No wonder the aliens all choose to show themselves to isolated individuals with lousy cameras. They are scared!

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Love At First Sight… On Separate Trains

I have to say, as a hopeless romantic, that this is my favorite BBC story in, perhaps, forever.

It’s the stuff of fairytales and songs that sell millions of copies around the world and make you an international singing star, if you’re James Blunt.

As almost anyone with ears and a radio in 2005 would know, he saw a woman’s face in a crowded place and he didn’t know what to do. Should have put an appeal in Lovestruck.

The dating column in the Londonpaper, a free evening newspaper distributed across London, is hugely popular with commuters. It tries to match those whose eyes met across the bus, tube or train carriage and share one of those “moments” Blunt sings about.

Sadly, the paper appears to be going under, as of Friday, losing a competition with another free paper. But the article notes that there are other sites geared toward facilitating meetings between these “ships passing in the night” sorts of encounters.

More, the article explores the notion of that instant, the moment when eyes meet, pulses race, imaginations run wild…

But are these “moments” real or is it all in our heads? Attraction can be that instant, in fact human beings are wired up that way, says Professor Adrian Furnham, co-author of The Psychology of Physical Attraction.

“We do pick things up very quickly – someone’s scent or a look that lasts a second longer than normal. Men in particular are wired up this way,” he says.

Not terribly surprising there, from my point of view. Oh, wait, there’s more:

“The interesting thing is that people believe the feeling is reciprocated, that something has been shared and that isn’t always the case. Even if it is mutual it’s not about romance, it’s about lust. Humans are wired up to mate, not be romantic.”

Spoilsport. (Ok, as a serious parenthetical in the middle of a lighthearted post, I have witnessed men who thought their feelings reciprocated. They thought they were in love; technically, in this case, due to differences in positional power, it was sexual harassment. Men, please do not assume she feels the same way. Ask. And listen…. ok, back to the lighthearted post:)

I have felt this, many times. When I met Cuttlespouse, I fell in love roughly .0001 seconds after seeing her for the first time. It took her a bit longer.

In instances where it is clearly an impossibility, the feeling is still inescapably wonderful; there is a fruit market in Athens that is indelibly etched in my memory simply for two moments. Going up the street, I chanced to look in the store and met her eyes. Going back down the street several hours later, the same. As the BBC story goes, this was one of those glances that lasted a little longer than usual, and that is all it takes. It was magical. Perhaps all the more magical because it can never be sullied by the harsh treatment of reality–in truth, she may have been looking past me toward someone else. But not in my memory.

Of course, the BBC includes a successful meeting in their writeup; the story would be just to horrible without it. But hey, those one-in-a-million success stories are what keep us going. For the Cuttlespouse and I, going for 25 years so far.

The verse is fictional–I started it in third person, but it just worked better in first.

I saw her—just a fleeting glance—
Amidst the milling crowd;
I thought she had to notice me,
My heart, it beat so loud.

I caught her eye, and kept my gaze,
As witnesses attest,
But I was in the eastbound queue
And she was in the west.

I very nearly missed my train
To keep her in my sight.
An angel, even in the glare
Of cold fluorescent light

Transformed I was; forevermore
I’d live a life possessed;
For I was on the eastbound train
And she was on the west.

My sadness grew with every mile
A dull and aching pain
I’d seen my heart’s companion, whom
I’d never see again.

My heart, I thought, would break apart
In pieces in my chest
For I was on the eastbound train
And she was on the west.

A week, then two, a month and more
I watched to see her face
Although I witnessed thousands there,
Of her there was no trace.

I loved, I knew, the perfect heart
Inside her perfect breast,
But I was on the eastbound train
And she was on the west.

It seemed a lifetime that I sought
The one whom I desired,
While she remained invisible
As if the gods conspired.

And if the gods denied me love,
The gods I would contest
Though I was on the eastbound train
And she was on the west.

And then, one day, a Lovestruck ad:
“The day we almost met”
The time, the place, the date, the face
I never will forget.

For weeks she had been looking,
But it’s just as you have guessed:
If she looked on the eastbound train,
That day I’d search the west.

We met, of course, and fell in love;
Now constantly explain
Just how it was we first met eyes
While riding separate trains.

And none could be so happy, no,
And none have been so blessed,
We sometimes take the eastbound train
And sometimes take the west.

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Barnacle Stan, The Sessile Man

Barnacle Stan, the sessile man,
Afraid to even look;
A timid fool, his tidal pool
An ancient holy book.
Between its pages, stuck for ages,
Keeping safe from Hell,
For fear of fire, he’ll ne’er inquire,
But stay inside his shell.

Barnacle Stan, he hatched a plan;
The gist of it was this:
He’d stay inside, forever hide,
Cos ignorance is bliss;
He’d sometimes write, with great delight
About his lovely view–
And tell us we should be so free…
I’m not convinced. Are you?

Context.

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A Modest Proposal (Jennifer, Jennifer)

Inspired by the comments (though not the actual initial post) on PZ’s post here. My verse is more a response to the general issue than to the specifics of the posted incident.

Jennifer, Jennifer, got herself pregnant,
The poor, irresponsible slut.
See, boys will be boys, so it’s up to the girls
To be moral, and keep their legs shut.
But Jennifer, Jennifer, couldn’t be bothered;
She led her young Billy astray.
They met, after classes, at Jennifer’s house,
And now there’s a kid on the way.

Jennifer, Jennifer, wants an abortion—
She says she’s too young for a baby—
But the law of the land says abortion is murder;
The answer is no, and not maybe.
See, murder is murder; we cannot condone
The destruction of innocent life.
And Billy, of course, is an innocent, too,
And he’s much, much too young for a wife.

So Jennifer, Jennifer, finds herself caught
In the view of a watchful Big Brother,
And Country and Church have a task on their hands—
How to keep the babe safe from its mother.
If murder is murder, for fetus or child,
Then surely assault is assault;
A fetus is damaged by drinking or smoking,
And all of it, Jennifer’s fault.

If Jennifer, Jennifer, falls down the stairs
Then the baby inside could be harmed;
And since that poor child is a ward of the state
It is right we should all be alarmed!
So Jennifer, Jennifer, needs to be safe
For the sake of the babe in her womb;
To keep the poor innocent safe from all harm,
Let’s keep Jennifer locked in her room.

But Jennifer, Jennifer, isn’t the first
Nor the last to be pregnant, you see.
The task that’s before us—protecting our children—
Is crucial, I think you’ll agree.
With the passing to law of my modest proposal,
I honestly think we’ll prevail.
It’s simple: Each woman who finds herself pregnant
Must spend the next nine months in jail.

Jennifer, Jennifer, shielded from harm
In a cell with a toilet and cot
With a closed-circuit camera, an unblinking eye,
For the safety of Jennifer’s tot.
When at last you deliver your new baby boy
We’ll whisk you right out through the door;
We care about kids while they’re inside your womb—
Once they’re out, we don’t care any more.

…

And Jennifer, Jennifer, can’t find her Billy—
Besides, he’s too young for a wife—
She weighs her alternatives, looks down each road…
And reluctantly takes her own life.

And the church says a prayer for the baby unborn
And a heartfelt and tearful farewell.
But Jennifer, Jennifer, so says the church,
Will be heading directly to hell.

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Behind The Scenes

I got a few interesting comments after I posted the following comment on Pharyngula:

They put me on committee, which I thought was really nice,
But they never seem to listen to my wonderful advice!
When I tell them that the Word Of God should underlie our laws,
They just smile and nod a second, maybe just an awkward pause,
Then it’s back to what the government can do for us today,
Though it’s infinitely cheaper just to bow our heads and pray.

They look at lots of options, while I know there’s only one;
When will they learn, that only prayer can ever get things done?
Why, what could be supported through the governmental coffers
That could possibly compete with what the Holy Bible offers?
As they fiddle with incentives, and with programs to promote,
I’ll be getting God’s attention, as I sacrifice a goat!

The topic was Obama’s “Faith Council”, and one member’s complaints that this particular government body was spending too much time looking at government-type solutions and not enough time looking at holy texts for inspiration.

Anyway, I read PZ’s post, typed up my comment, and posted. I was as surprised as anyone else to find that it was comment #4. One commenter even suggested that I must have had advance notice of the topic, to write this in under 23 minutes. So I thought I’d just say a couple of things about how I tend to write.

In this particular instance (which was fairly typical), I read the post and opened up the comment box before I had any notion of what I was going to say. I can’t remember whether anyone else had commented yet or not. Given that I get most of my traffic from PZ’s blog, and given that a substantial number of people quit reading the comments after a couple score are posted, I make it my goal to be in the first 50 comments if I can. I usually can’t. More often than not, I open up the comment box, and… wait… and… think… and… realize I have nothing to say. Or if I have something to say that is not in rhyme, I sign a different name. (I use the same email; any blog owners know it is me. I am not trying to hide; I always use the same name, and I have used it for years.) But occasionally, something will come to me in verse. This post was one of those occasions. I made a total of one slight edit (the last couplet was written before the second to last, and I switched them), but other than that, it just came out, pretty much as quickly as prose does–some of it perhaps faster, because rhyme constrains choices so that you have to think of two lines at once instead of just one.

I do sometimes (I never really counted, but maybe half, more or less) take the time to write something out separately from the comment box. More rarely, I work on something for a day or more–usually, those are written longhand, in my terrible handwriting, even if I am at my computer at the time. I find it much more difficult to work on the day-or-more verses; it is almost as if those ones don’t want to be written. Something like the above, though, writes itself.

Oh, and for the poetry purists… I don’t consider what I write to be poetry. It is commentary… that happens to be in verse.

Why?

Hell if I know.

Some day, they’ll do a PET scan, and they’ll peek inside my brain,
And discover things that even Ramachandran can’t explain,
Like connections from my liver to my left prefrontal cortex
Or cascades of hippocampal volleys, spinning in a vortex,
My gyri and my sulci spelling out, as plain as day
(Just as aliens leave circle-shapes in fields of un-mown hay),
In a hieroglyphic pattern that you’ve never seen before:
“Don’t look at us, you moron; we don’t work here any more!”
Yes, my brain is on vacation when I write the things I write;
I pity all the people who can only dream at night.

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