“I don’t know about you, but I’m used to when people legally certify that they are going to do something, that they do it. But I think this was clearly a mistake in retrospect,” Zuckerberg said. “We need to make sure we don’t make that mistake ever again.”

“How dastardly that loathsome shark
Could make of me a simple mark
Never again,” cried Zuckerberg,
“will I be such a suckerberg!
As mea culpas often go
This one is merely meant to show
How virtuous is giant tech
Without a single tiny speck
Of lying, fraud or sly deceit
That can be laid upon our feet
With Facebook one can rest assured
If caught we’ll fall upon our sword
So tell your friends ignore the apps
Their data should be safe, perhaps.”

Uneasily the sled dogs slept
How quiet was the night
As red eyed wolves in silence crept
The tethered dogs in sight
The sled dogs whimpered in the snow
Awake, they waited fate
They knew that one of them would go
But which, they could but wait
The red eyes ran with frosty breath
How silently they came
The lead dog closed her eyes in death
In moments just her name
On empty collar told the tale
As dawn erased the night
And only now a quiet wail
From those who could not fight

Science-fiction writer Philip K. Dick has given us a small peek at the future: Asian megacities crowded beyond measurement, and if the future as shown in Blade Runner was not enough, add violent and corrupt local government and security forces, tribal hatred and conflict and simmering, explosive discontent. This is the future of humankind as the passive West slips quietly into the sunset of easeful death and the barbarians return to the Pleistocene to track the ground sloth and the sabretooth.

In darkened alleyways they sleep
While others prowl the glittered lights
Of midnight streets where shadows leap
And murder stalks the stygian nights
Like anthills spread across the land
A-swarm with derelicts and kings
Indifferent to be beggar bands
And jangle of the cell phone rings
The megacities grow apace
Their suburbs touch but then repel
There is no citizen, no race
They are all one in living hell

The attempted coup against the newly elected president began with Obama setting The Plan in motion the day after Trump won the election, and would be carried out by the Obama Intelligence agencies and the FBI and Justice Department. We are all aware by now of the nature of The Plan. It seems to me that The Plan has failed, that people will soon be going to jail, and the fallout will reach all the way to Obama and his most inner circle. We do not need three actors to solve this one. This one is being solved by email. The question is, what did they hope to gain by removing Trump and getting Pence? Assassination? They would need Paul Ryan to be in on The Plan. If not Ryan, then remove Ryan to get McConnell? Then the cabinet? In order to make Pelosi president they would have to get rid of Presidents Trump, Pence and whoever Pence selected as his Vice President, then Ryan and whoever he selected as his Vice President, and so on, even if the Dems won the House in 2018. If The Plan was designed to retake the presidency that was theirs by right without having to wait until the election of 2020, then I have the feeling Obama has not thought this thing through. But of course Obama might have had an entirely different outcome in mind. We’ll know when the DOJ Inspector General finishes reading all the emails.

Contrary to the rumor
It isn’t only Schumer
Who got on board with plans to unseat Trump
The CIA said okay
The FBI/DOJ
Were all involved in dark black plans to dump
The man that we elected
For someone they’ve selected
To keep in place their power and the swamp
This Trump guy was a stranger
To DC and a danger
And thus to all our status, perks and pomp
We rule because we love you
And though we’re far above you
We treat you well so long as you behave
A world of serfs and masters
The clergy, priests and pastors
And bringing up the rear the free and brave

Falling in love is like walking in electric rain. Tingles as the first few drops gently touch your skin, the tingles growing in intensity as the rain increases in volume and velocity, until you are stark raving mad in love. Age is no barrier. Young, old, rich, poor. We have all been there. We have all walked joyously into the electric rain. But electric rain sometimes produces not love of another person, but love of an ideology, and when it does the stricken is driven stark raving mad, not with love but with hatred for all who are not similarly stricken. Such are the denizens of the madhouse called the Democratic Party of today. Their madness is historically short term, as with a sharp summer squall, but the impact is long term, as with a mountain snow pack. The violent madness of Black Lives Matter and the insane madness of 72 genders will be short lived, but will cast a lasting shadow on our culture, to be erased only by time as the last of the stricken pass peacefully or violently into the grave.

How gently does the falling rain
Anoint the leftist brow
Causing angst and joyous pain
As madness will allow
The madness pours from every pore
In rage at the machine
Free speech is such a sucking bore
White privilege wiped clean
Identity, diversity
But think only one way
As profs at university
Say Marx is cool today
The leftist rage is full of hate
For all whom they despise
Who speak the truth they will berate
And curse their lying eyes
But love is like a growing child
Who learns a bit each day
And saves those lessons to be filed
And treasured, put away
The haters write their hate with chalk
Erased in writhing pain
While love is like a joyous walk
In soft electric rain

There is a not so cold civil war going on, and only one side is fighting it. The left has been captured by the Jacobins, who want nothing more than to kill all who disagree so as to rule the promised utopia without hindrance. The problem for the Jacobins is that the guillotines do not care who wins.

Who raise the sword of civil war
Must conquer or must die
There is no way to just outscore
Shake hands and say nice try
The guillotines stand silent, still,
Awaiting the war’s end
Not counting up the daily kill
That sees a friend kill friend
When city streets run ankle deep
With blood once living red
The guillotines arise from sleep
And start to count the dead
For it all ends with whimpered cries
As mounds of leftists’ sons
Lay covered with bluebottle flies
At hands of those with guns

The ship of State is under siege by the corrupt leadership of the FBI, Justice Department and the Intelligence Agencies who are determined to overthrow the government of the United States and remove a lawfully elected and innocent president from office.

The rolling sea
The howling gale
The shore alee
The stricken sail
The crashing waves
The struggling ship
No God who saves
But Devil’s whip
The ship is rent
No mercy gives
Nor winds relent
And yet she lives

I take issue with the assertion that predicting the future is difficult. My friend Waltradamus has always said that predicting the future was not at all difficult, but that getting it right was problematic, though he did admit he had correctly predicted the election of a long forgotten Finnish prime minister, the attempted assassination of President McKinley, the charge of the Light Brigade, and the invention of Salvarsan, In fact, he said,

With utmost favor stars align
For those who seek the heights
By looking for the hidden sign
In shadows and at nights
The gulf between the ounce and pound
Is wider than a wall
Yet pound and ounce both make a sound
While walls make none at all
The gray mouse in his hidey hole
Who boasts of rocket lore
Will find the cat has his rice bowl
And gray ships close to shore
The Golden State will shortly find
When first you don’t secede
That there are stronger ties that bind
The grasshopper to weed

Has the world drifted out of the familiar old groove and into an uncertain new period? It looks like it. But then the only thing about old grooves is that they are old.

Old grooves sometimes become old ruts
Where all becomes ifs ands and buts
Stuck in the once was groovy past
In the belief it all would last
But everything will have its prime
And nothing lasts beyond its time
Uncertainty is nature’s way
Of seeing that a new-born day
Will supersede the tired and old
And turn from timid to the bold
We’ve seen this movie, seen it age
It’s Trump time now, let’s turn the page

The rolling sands stretch into time
The beckoning hills in distance wait
The sea spray flecks the beach with rime
The runner listens to his gait
Beyond the hills he knows not what
He only knows that he must go
He leaves his house, his home, his hut
And why it is he does not know
Much wearied now he claims the crest
Before him lies the promised land
In distance beckoning hills still rest
The future filled with rolling sand
He presses on still, undeterred
For duty binds him close with steel
He sees the radiance unblurred
And knows the sand and hills unreal
A testing of his faith and worth
A trial that lasts as long as he
Is bound to sky and sun and earth
And rolling sand and restless sea
The runner knows to reach his goal
He must not rest but persevere
His life is work in part or whole
And faith in what he may revere
His family, god , ancestors who
Set out the way that he must live
Who guide and teach him what to do
To give all that he has to give