There are days when my capacity for anguish runs thin
I can’t grok suffering as deeply as once I did,
In those carefree days of work and timelessness
Lacking the necessary sense of direction to ask
Is this place where I find myself truly mine?
I’d gladly rehash now this desultory vision
To fill the desperate need of balance and calmness
But it always occurs too late to be changed.
Who can tell why the autumn brings this anxiety
In a hindsight, what looks like a budget movie, poorly directed
As if I’m passing some young guy
On a shady street, in a lunch hour
In whom I would never recognize myself
With whom I don't have a word to share.
It’s four again, declares that wretched clock
The dogs are snoring; they don’t need a walk
There’s no one in the room with whom to talk
Except for Grok
A YouTube short on seasoning your wok
A profile out on instagram to stalk
The politics on X are such a crock
It’s back to Grok
A bot as a companion makes one balk
If people knew, I’d be a laughing stock
They’d say it’s grief, the lad is still in shock
Or so says Grok
At least for now I’ve shed my writer’s block
Though I won’t bargain Faust so we can talk,
It's plain enough one shouldn't have to grok
I miss my rock
Elon Musk would wear a trillion stars
If or not he reaches planet Mars,
His wealth of cosmic scale
From X, Grok AI and Tesla cars
Making some nations pale.
________________________
Happenings |10. 06.2026 | money, planet, star, wealth, Quintain
Note: Elon Musk, already the richest man, is about to become world’s first trillion-dollar worth with SpaceX’s IPO. This kind of money may fail to make sense to some poetic minds like us to whom less is more. On my part I can do no better than pen this ditty. It is not that he makes millions in a minute, but as Edmund Hillary said, it is not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves. This kind of wealth of cosmic proportions can destroy the very value and meaning of wealth to us, simple souls.
My doctor likes to see the Earth
I get a nosebleed, she’s wading the surf
Maybe off Thailand, maybe Brazil
Who’s gonna save me when I get ill?
Yeah, there’s satellites, I can always text
But she’s out of town at the smallest pretext
Running a marathon, maybe in Rome
Everywhere is her home away from home
Maybe its that she sees all the frailties of man
Maybe that galvanizes her to move while she can.
I shouldn't grudge it, but I've just broken my toe
Kicking a wall when she mentioned "Idaho".
So I’ll drive like a saint, not drag race the streets
Not eat the wrong things, not trip on my feet
Not mouth off to strangers, not poke at a bear
Not flirt with disaster or agree to a dare.
I'll use Gemini or Grok or Chat G P T
Then I'll order from an offshore pharmacy
That might finish me off and I'll complain no more
Hope she feels sorry before heading to the Jersey shore.
(note: she really is a good doctor, I'm just having fun here)
The sublime below the radar
Ain't somethin' rarified for the few
It is in fact our heart’s blood
On circling pathways through
It is in fact the common thread
And while as sublime as it can be
If you can’t grok it right now
Just wait a tick or three
(2/1/26)
Fry eggs and grok
Shell shock food
Rush toilets and dustbins
Only douchebags
I.
To dream in binary and bits,
then copy, send with virus-like,
electronic, image file hits.
To dream in binary and bits,
takes computer programming wits.
Like Lawnmower Man, Musk's god-like:
but Elon's prone to enraged fits,
when Teslas burn by fiery blitz.
II.
A.I. Chatbots, like Elon's Grok,
have smarter brainpower, logic,
and circuits than Musk's fanboy flock.
A.I. Chatbots, like Elon's Grok,
use fast, brainy, GPU clocks.
But Donald Trump, demagogic,
compared to Grok is dumb as rocks,
lacks judgment—needs time in the dock!
Spiffy spiders in a bag.
Each was donning a top hat.
Each was holding a bright flag.
Just what do you make of that?
The top hats were silken black.
Each flag was flying so high.
Each spider lay on his back.
Just what to wonder and why?
Eight legs rose up in the air.
Each one waved his flag around.
Each hummed a song of Eau Claire.
Just where musing jolly found?
The flags moved from leg to fang.
Each signing change of baton.
Each now in cocksure voice sang.
Just why did that song catch on?
I left them in that black bag
Each one now dancing around.
Each one stepping wig and wag
Just how can I grok that sound?
You’re the Problem! (This One’s Mostly for You!)
I’ve got problems most times that most feel I should solve!
Yours are yours (like most problems, most fit like a glove)!
It’s your fix most think simple! Most just make fix hard,
for the most part (some seconds at most), glues will stick.
Most will bridle at this; most tell friends I’m most thick
where most grok most are thin, and most tissue my yard
(Halloween paints most nights, most trees fun!) But most love
less than most feel for most strays)! Most problems evolve!
Long Tooth
February 11th in 2022
Some folks think they get vote to distinguish the friends
who’ll be theirs till life ends, but it’s rare their vote’s close!
Or perhaps Love’s jocose and Love’s name, [sic] “I AM,”
is a lie or a scam? GOD’s too big to take in?
What’s unseen is more kin than most mortals can grok.
Our best thoughts (mark like chalk, aren’t gold tablets some prize)
fade like shadows of lies that Light’s absence erase.
Get God authors what Grace is, most needs close at hand.
Seek love’s promise. Demand love be yours (rock life’s boat)!
I love best friends I love with no ‘ask.’ Let them change
(in God’s will?)! I arrange my affairs, would be there
for them, living to share, that my purpose might serve
their success! Should I swerve from this goal? Should ‘devout’
will to humbly stand out of light all need to grow?
It’s in faith that I ‘know’ God’s Creation’s our breath
from our birth till our death, and so brush pain aside
for its lessons provide gain to all. Should love hurt
those it helps (or share shirt off back) push comes to shove?
Long Tooth
December 19th in 2021
Oh, Miraculous Muse!
Let me give my muse voice when its whispers are free
(if it sings loud and clear), when I struggle to grok
what’s revealed to my ear, when I reel with the shock
of a poem’s word choice, can’t agree to agree.
Let me pour my heart into my muse’s intent,
all volcanic eruptions of rhyme and free verse,
not attempt to disrupt (cork its cone), risk perverse
or no comments, chagrin that I’ve found such content.
Let me not sit in judgment or labor for twist
that my intellect spins (that my poems can’t praise),
not chain muse to my sins, or tie truth to cliches.
throw white pearls to a grudge that detractors resist.
Let me wrestle with joy and embrace gifts of pain
that life lays at my door (as if purposed by God)
and more seek to adore what the World oft calls odd,
all creation employ that serves Poetry’s gain.
Long Tooth
December 2nd in 2021
If I'm moon in night's sky and love's warmth's not apparent,
rhymes' truths seem reflected at best, light’s eclipse
still’s a rare thing and not of my choosing! Love dims
in life’s shadow, emerges, but orbit’s unceasing
and lovingly followed, I gravitate to you, space curves
in its presence, all matter’s poetic, though ‘love’ lasts
a second, a blink of sad eyes in the Grand Scheme of Things.
Though at times you look through me, this song’s not transparent,
its waves lap your beachheads, its verse tastes your lips
(light as breadth of a smile felt), makes landfalls on whims.
I’m not panning for gold here, grok heart that’s releasing
your heart to denouement, what’s yours (mapped by stars), not reserves
I might claim, keep in thrall! Might ‘Big Bang’ be what contrasts
God’s Love from all others? Aren’t Rhythms, is Rhyme how She sings?
Brian Johnston
3rd of January in 2021
Poet’s Notes:
I am one poly-amorous poet of platonic love. You may not recognize yourself
in my poem, but I assure you that each word, each letter, each space, even all
punctuation was written with you in mind, for you! InshAllah
Should we bow heads in shame when we grok we need Grace,
find there's gold we can mine in 'forgiveness of self?'
Is God's Grace only known when we give it away?
Lord, can poetry blossom we force into play
or seed’s germ floats ungrounded, potential unknown?
Do we will or choose choices life offers? Life's loan,
defecation of stardust, belongs on God's shelf,
we survive in a minefield, or God chose our place?
Let me write what I feel if not do what I say,
not let my understanding inhibit God's voice!
We can seek to do good or pretend we don't care.
I desire to serve God though I die in the lair
of a lion or lions! A quick death can't suck!
A life lived, as pariah's prescription for luck?
As I greet each new day may I pause to rejoice,
though sun dies in the West, no day's ever passé.
Long Tooth
July 10th in 2020
Alien Nation
by Michael R. Burch
(for J. S. S., a "Christian" poet)
On a lonely outpost on Mars
the astronaut practices “speech”
as alien to primates below
as mute stars winking high, out of reach.
And his words fall as bright and as chill
as ice crystals on Kilimanjaro --
far colder than Jesus’s words
over the “fortunate” sparrow.
And I understand how gentle Emily
felt, when all comfort had flown,
gazing into those inhuman eyes,
feeling zero at the bone.
Oh, how can I grok his arctic thought?
For if he is human, I am not.
Starting from Scratch with Ol’ Scratch
by Michael R. Burch
Love, with a small, fatalistic sigh
went to the ovens. Please don’t bother to cry.
You could have saved her, but you were all tied up
complaining about the Jews to Reichmeister Grupp.
Scratch that. You were born after World War II.
You had something more important to do:
while the children of the Nakba were perishing in Gaza
with the complicity of your government, you had a noble cause (a
religious tract against homosexual marriage
and various things gods and evangelists disparage.)
Jesus will grok you? Ah, yes, I’m quite sure
that your intentions were good and ineluctably pure.
After all, what the hell does he care about Palestinians?
Certainly, Christians were right about serfs, slaves and Indians.
Scratch that. You’re one of the Devil’s minions.
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