To Editors of the World

Yodel said: "Oh editors, please eat my cheese;

Please bore more holes through my cheese,

So that I may see more clearly."

Multa said: "How can you be so sarcastic?"

Yodel disappeared into the Alps to make more cheese.

Multa said: "The Alps? People certainly make cheese in other places, too. Why the Alps?"

Yodel returned to being milk, and then grass.

Multa said: "How unscientific. And distasteful."

Yodel was never a thing; it has always been and will be a voice, a harp singing in the wind.

To Be Continued

It is too easy to despair,

To fall into despair and to keep falling,

Until your knees buckle and

You begin to see your father's face as some distant object

But on the other side of the screen, you do know that

A world, some world, exists

Do twigs fall out of despair?

No, they fall with gladness - Zhuangzi knows.

And the carp, too, sing their own songs.

Clouds

Pyrus: What is happening to my mind? It is all clouded over, too well protected from the sun. It doesn't burn anymore, as it used to. Doesn't get scorched, or pierced by the moon any longer. I have ceased to feel, and know it is because of the ticking clock. No tears, no words.

Tyrol: That is a lie, a lie! You lie, you feeling thing, you sentient, joculating being. Your mind is hardly protected from that light bulb, aye, let alone the sun!

Pyrus: But the clock!

Tyrol: The clock is in your heart. And it never rushes. Even when it's beating like mad, how incredibly slowly it keeps time, compared to, say, a mouse's heart, or a fly's.

Monsieur Bushy

Shallowness, I would be so happy if you could stay in my bathtub

Or in my plate of soy sauce;

Why do they criticize Monsieur Bush so much?

Granting that Monsieur Bushy needs to examine the root-causes of the criticisms directed against himself,

We do, too.

Why don't they ask why, really why, an American president had no choice but to turn so paranoid,

So fearful and fearless all at the same time?

Of course, determinism is bad and Monsieur Bush may have less intelligence than an apple (what is intelligence?).

But why do so few see beyond the wallpaper, however tasteful?

Monsieur Bushy is crying, voicelessly;

His manly chest heaves with each sob.