poetry, ms office, the pockydoodle, and other trivial concerns.

Another opportunity to inflict my mind upon the unsuspecting, the "clicker" and the dubious provenance of the Mirror Glass, the "clickee", sarsholling and brushing against, a butterfly's wing near the door to the outhouse, or better still, near that little moon window; I know not how oft.

I fib for the sake of poetry, for I truly do know how oft.

My mind was a flitter yesterday; I stayed quiet, for lack of a certainty, for lack of a clarity, spoon-round my thoughts, and one of my eyes drooping down further than my belt, neigh, all the weigh to and past my side pocket.

This thing, this "pockydoodle", I was emailing an interior designer, trying to put them off their occupation, and a kind of flamboyancy that naturally occurred and skeedaddled alongside.  The "pockydoodle", betimes in the past, meant the sun setting on the British Empire, or guns of Damascus steel or things of that nature.  As it is today, they try to convince me to chat with a computer program, and I, for the devil of it and for the life of me, sometimes feel a kind of curiosity: even as part of me thinks, piously, that the curiosity is the seed of damnation, the way a simple thought is the mustard seed that grows into mountain-moving faith.

They say too, MS Office, with some AI counterbalancing in it, and I had suggested such once upon a time, but not for content-writing or task completion, but something of a suite of words statistics in One Note.  I noticed Alphabet has done something in part of word machine, a recognition engine with dictionary, encyclopedia, and thesaurus at its ready elbows, but I can't find it readily online, because it isn't intended for the general populace.

Plus, its remote computer time, an allotment for the subjugation of one's thoughts and perspectives in that antsy little moment, waiting impatiently for a response from the program.

I solve such problems as much for my own success curve as it is to your own success curve, the procurement and stockpiling of beautiful green dollars.

A fib told for poetry, is but a lace frill of nicety away from the sprain and strains of the throng--its as if a quiet moment far removed.  I couldn't have that yesterday, because of the evocative dynamics of caffeination.

I was given a standing invitation to wipe my buttocks upon the floor coverings of a friend's next home; and I think of this, "your Republic?"  He is an arguer, a fighter and a ninety-niner.  One who took his glands away from the coals and walked home, managing to retain fresh lip-liner.

This thing, this "pockydoodle", Infobores.com and so forth, prismplanet.com and all that, a veritable two or three note memorandum collection that created a book, that was sold to a mass of people, that was made into a 9 hour movie extravaganza.  The Pockydoodle continues, with barbecue goat, hair on the top of the foot, chewed thumbnails, the hard sumbitches, and people that were frozen to tiny screens: I had read that book by Stephen King, and I was thinking of my own unofficial sequel, with the Obama guy and all that, titularly, "That's ALL yall."