There once was a justice named Rogers
Who ignored the appeals of lodgers
Whose claims he found small
In his ledger so tall
To the glee of egregious court dodgers.

Jinx was a black and white beagle with a touch of brown.
It was a cold icy night, and it was time to go.
We called and called, but we could not wait;
Surely Jinx would be there upon our return.

The trip to the East Side of town was long,
And everyone was happy with our timely arrival.
It was late when we returned and we went to bed tired
Hoping that Jinx would survive the night.

When we awoke, Jinx was still absent.
Panic set in, and we boarded the family car.
Only my mother was left behind to prepare our lunch.
We combed the neighborhood for hours shouting, "Jinx!", "Jinx!", "Jinx!".

After several hours we realized how foolish we had been.
Jinx would never return.

Jinx was a brave, hardy dog, but no match against the cold.
My father surmised that he had fallen through the ice.

Until this day I miss Jinx and wish him my very best.
My father was a good man, and I miss my mother.

Tomorrow I will cook a goose in memory of the family that was once mine.

There once was a man named Jong Gu
Who was looking for someone to sue.
Self-righteous in nature
And careless in stature
He sued the wrong party anew.

There once was a teacher named Allison
Who thought herself Queen of the Amazon.
Surrounded with children
She feigned holy wisdom
And bowed to a prince named Horizon.

There once was a sailor named Jiho
Who played a hymn on his dildo.
Although it did rhyme,
And he had a good time,
He got stuck when the muck was staccato.

My parents gone, my family parted.
I know not where. Is it important?
Nay, I say, for what if we were once again united?
The past would prevail.
And, I wish it not.

I am thankful that we were.
For had we not been, I would not still be.
And, there would be no tomorrow.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow is what I dream.
But, the world saddens me.

Am I lost? Probably not.
I wish not that pain be my home.
Do I have direction? And, then again, our world is conflicted.
There are those who have steered us awayfrom nature.
And, our return will be painful,

They speak of holy books.
They speak of a time long ago.
I did not live then; I live now
And in the future. It is the future that I dream.
Not a time long past and better forgotten.

Our genes are a stolid record
Of who we are, and where we have been.

Hatred is an insidious liar;
It offers direction where there is none.
It stands before us like the red cape of a matador
And, lures us to our own defeat.

If we are lucky, we survive our enemy,
But our indirection does not disappear.
Like a severed head of the sacred Hydra.
It simply reappears.

For, still we burn inside
With the pain and sorrow of our past.
Now, worse than before, as we turn
Toward one another to rebuild and cannot.

No smarter than before, we are led by others
Who know no hate, but are eager to employ our ignorance.
And soon, we are duped again.
Not by ourselves, but by these others.

Hatred is an ugly debilitating disease.
Anger is a healthy response for those who have not yet lost their direction.

Dedicated to my Facebook friends,
the Zionist scourge,
those who suffer in its grip,
and the indifferent masses around the world
who support the scourge
with their daily purchases, votes, and tax dollars.

My computer has no compassion;
It defends against me without mercy,
Neither does it ridicule me when I lose.
I have as many chances as I like;
Well, at least, until I tire.

There are no conflicting values.
The playing board is level, and the rules are clear.
It is highly responsive to my every aspiration.
It is logic at its best: think or flounder.
No petty jibes, no illusions, and no acts of treachery.

My computer is frank.
It does not seek to deceive or cheat me.
It is not judgmental. It exhibits no arrogance, no displeasure.
My own loss is not even my computer's gain.
If there is emotional bias, then it is my own.

As I learn a better game, I learn about myself
And the causes of my own frustration.

Our mind demands order
But each mind is different.
No one can dictate perfection.

Perfection is an equilateral triangle --
Not one that you or I can draw,
But one that we can both imagine.

Perfection is a circle,
A figure in space, a mathematical relationship
We imagine the former, and can express the latter.

Perfection is anywhere that we imagine it.
And nowhere where we seek to find it.
Perfection is the magic of the human mind.

It is what binds us with the universe.