Unnoticed in Clever Worlds

The clearest description I have managed so far about my blog is that it is not about cats. In general, I find predators pretty predictable while prey on the other-hand, because they live in universes of anxiety, develop more textured personalities. I also have as a writer a deft hand when it comes to making matters worse, so of course , the already panicky are ready made for me. I will try to grow this blog into an assortment of laughs, because that is what my life has mostly taught me to do. I will use the famous people I have known to get your attention and then tell you small but many times wonderful things about them. I will never name the ones I say ugly things about but I hope you will guess who they are.

Category: Unnoticed in Clever Worlds

Socrates, Trump, and the Serpents

In Book X of Plato’s Republic, Socrates banishes all artists, (Democrats) from his ideal State. He argues that creations of imagination are farthest removed from the truth. Our media turns the mind of the spectator away from reality and toward the realm of “becoming better,” example: gender-based pointless re-identification, egalitarian butt sniffing and the desperate attempt to commit to memory all the colors human beings can come in.
For Trump and Socrates, there is only one idea of an original “table.” A table-maker can make a table from this idea, but the idea of a table remains permanent. Even farther removed from God’s concept of “table” is the painting of a table. Presumably, God granted us all with enough imagination to fuck up the original concept of “table.” ( See “This is Us” on Tuesday’s.) I bet that God did this because he never really liked us.
“Tables, then, are of three kinds. The one made by God, who is Trump for those who may have missed that this was coming. Then there are the ones made by good people who work for a living creating the tables that we use. We will henceforth refer to these people as non-serpents.
Lastly, there are the Imaginists, who can maintain reality only so as long as they stare into mirrors, avoid scary loud noises, and never go anywhere without at least five people of varying colors.


Imagine if you will, me dancing in front of a mirror at around nine years old dreaming of God knows what. Regis Boff


Why are their no sad, lonely and untalented gay people? Answer: Hollywood and women who have been married more the ten years.

The Immigration pickle and Useless Dogs

The people who want to come here from the South are nicer than us. They are nicer than us and they are poor. In America our poor and our rich are assholes. One believes money shoots out of nowhere with no effort on their part because they are stupid and the other figures that if they have earned it, that alone forgives their greediness.
The way I see it, everything South of Texas until you bang into the South Pole, is filled with excellent brown people. So we need to get the fuck out. If starting today we load ourselves into trucks and head into Canada this whole immigration pickle could be solved.
And we each could have a moose instead of these useless dogs.


Women and cats are the only creatures that demand a clean toilet. Dogs and men are not affected by a filthy lavatory in any discernable way and oddly, many sniffingly approve.

Robert Frost, “Mending Wall”

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
‘Stay where you are until our backs are turned!’
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, ‘Good fences make good neighbors’.
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
‘Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it
Where there are cows?
But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That wants it down.’ I could say ‘Elves’ to him,
But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me~
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father’s saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, “Good fences make good neighbors.”

If you are a student of prophets which I am a terrific example of. You will notice that God is signaling our closeness to him by the brevity he now uses to point us to the Truth.

Big, Big, Big Surprise

I am working on a surprise for my fellow Democrats but I just don’t have the timing down yet as to when I give it to them. Should I tell them before we win the midterms, immediately afterward during the celebration party or do I wait until we successfully impeach President Trump?
Nobody I know in my naive little village where Hillary lives has figured out what waits behind the curtain of an impeached Trump. President Pence. Shh!


Life has taught me nothing but I am certain you appreciate the little touches I have added to it. Regis Boff

Perhaps there is no better a poem

When we two are parted
Lord Byron

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted,
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sank chill on my brow
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o’er me
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well:
Long, long shall I rue thee
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met
In silence I grieve
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.

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