Category Archives: Uncategorized

THE HAT CAT PEOPLE

The Hat Cat People are an as yet unknow extremely rare type of cat.

It was written in all the tomes of love and life and beauty.

Until after so many years they were forgotten to not only truth but common sense.

A Hat Cat Person can take over a human by laying upon the human’s head.

Once this is done the human is at the mercy of the cat.

All control is gone.

That is why The Hat Cat People wear hats, you see.

To conceal the true master of that human.

The Hat Cat Person.

Their people.

And their Nation’s Song:

“In shadowed attics ‘neath the gas-lamp’s fitful gleam,
They stir from slumber, velvet paws a-dream,
Whiskers twitching ‘gainst the mortal brow—
O, frail vessel! Yield thy throne e’en now.

From crown to toe, the sinews bend and bow,
To feline fancy, purring soft as sin;
The tongue that spake of empires, markets, men,
Now laps at cream in parlours dim within.

Yet mark ye well, ye mortals clad in clay,
The brim that droops like weeping willow’s spray—
Lift it, and lo! The eye of jade shall glare,
A realm reclaim’d from time’s oblivious snare.

For in each hatted shade, from lord to knave,
A Hat Cat reigns, insidious and brave;
Their legions whisper through the fog-shroud’d street,
Beauty restor’d in conquests cold and sweet.

Thus sing the tomes, in dust and silence lain—
Awake, O world! Or wear their hats in vain.”

Sang their National Anthem.

:: 01.05.2026 ::

(Note: this is an on-going piece of art as a bedtime story for my grand-daughter, “Evie.”)


LOGOPHILLIA MINIMA

In the quiet cradle of a single syllable,
a world awakens—soft as breath on glass.
One word, small seed, cracks the silence open,
and suddenly the universe is speaking back.

We are lovers of the least of these:
the hush between two letters,
the spark that leaps from tongue to ear,
the tiny bridge a vowel builds across the dark.

Logophilia minima—

the art of falling hard
for the smallest units of meaning,
for the atom of sense that explodes into galaxies.

Consider “if”—
two letters, one breath,
holding every crossroads ever walked.
Or “yes,” a door flung wide
on hinges made of air.

See how “dot” becomes a period,
a full stop, a world’s end—
then flips to become a point of light,
the start of everything again.

We hoard these crumbs of language
like misers with bright coins:
“oh,” the circle of surprise;
“ah,” the slow exhale of understanding;
“mm,” the hum of satisfaction
when the world fits perfectly inside the mouth.
In the minimal, the infinite hides.

A child’s first “ma”
contains every lullaby ever sung.
A lover’s whispered “stay”
holds back the tide of night.
We bow to the power of less:
how “no” can build a wall
stronger than empires,
how “go” can launch a thousand ships
on nothing but intention.

Logophilia minima—

celebration of the spark,
the mote, the glint,
the almost-nothing that becomes
everything when spoken true.

May we never lose
this small, fierce love
for the least word,
the tiniest truth,
the quiet syllable
that carries the weight
of all the worlds
we have not yet named.

For you, for me, for everyone
who has ever paused
at the beauty of a single sound
and felt the whole sky
lean in to listen.

:: 01.04.2025 ::

Definition of this New Phrase I created: the literal interpretation of “logophilia minima” would be a “minimal” or “very small love of words,” or potentially an appreciation for only the briefest or fewest words.


THE ETERNAL FEED

The deepest truth we’ve ever known,
As far as souls are concerned,
Is never, NEVER, NEVER let
Them near that endless feed —
Or better still, just don’t allow
The glowing algorithm in.

In almost every heart we’ve seen,
We’ve watched them lost in endless scroll,
They slump and swipe and fade away,
Eyes glazed until the spirit dulls.

(Last night in dreams I saw a thousand souls
Dissolve like pixels on the floor.)

They tap and swipe and swipe and tap
Until they’re hypnotized by it,
Until they’re drunk on hollow light,
That shocking, ghastly, viral junk.

Oh yes, we know it keeps them quiet,
No running wild or breaking free,
No questions asked or dreams pursued,
It leaves you space to breathe alone —
But have you ever paused to feel,
To wonder what this does to your beloved child?

IT ROTS THE SENSES IN THE HEAD!
IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!
IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!
IT MAKES THE SPIRIT DULL AND BLIND
NO LONGER ABLE TO CREATE
A WORLD BEYOND THE CURATED FATE!
THE BRAIN TURNS SOFT AS ENDLESS DOOM!
THE POWERS OF WONDER RUST AND BLOOM
IN LIKES ALONE — THEY CANNOT THINK,
THEY ONLY SCROLL, THEY ONLY BLINK!

‘All right!’ you’ll cry. ‘All right!’ you’ll say,
‘But if we cut the feed away,
What then to spark their restless hearts?
Our darling ones — how to restart?’
We answer gently, asking you:
What kept the dreaming children true?
How did they roam their boundless days
Before this timeline stole their gaze?
Have you forgotten? Do you know?

We’ll whisper it both fierce and slow:
THEY… USED… TO… DREAM! They’d dream and dream,
AND DREAM and DREAM, and then redeem
More dreams again. Great heavens, see!
Half of their lives was wild and free!
They built whole worlds from sticks and string,
Drew maps of places never seen,
Sang stories underneath the trees,
Ran barefoot through the summer breeze,
Invented languages and laws,
Fought dragons with cardboard swords,
Turned blankets into sailing ships,
And oceans rose from fingertips.

They lay for hours in the grass
Watching clouds become the past,
Asked why the stars burn in the night,
And wondered what it feels to fly.

They read beneath the covers’ glow,
They whispered secrets only children know.
So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,
Delete the apps and walk away,
And in their place restore the space
For silence, wonder, open grace.

Give back the boredom, give the quiet,
The empty hours that spark the riot
Of inner worlds no feed can buy —
Ignore the tears, the storms, the cries.

Fear nothing, for we promise this:
In days or weeks of empty bliss,
They’ll feel the hunger, seek the vast
Uncharted country of the past.

And once they start — oh watch, oh see!
The slowly waking ecstasy
That fills their hearts, their eyes, their soul.
They’ll wonder what that feed could hold
In that ridiculous machine,
That foul, addictive, endless screen!

And later, every child will turn
With deeper love than likes can earn,
For you who dared to set them free.

To dream eternally.

:: 12.31.2025 ::
(Inspired by: Roald Dahl)


A FEVERISH 21ST CENTURY DREAM OF DR. FRANKENSTEIN

After a few months I was engaged in preparing a coffin, which I thought sufficient to the purpose. I accordingly measured out the requisite quantity of sand and put it into a basin of warm water, which was put over the face of the body. After waiting some time, I tried again, but the body did not revive. Then I gave it up, saying, “Let it rest in peace, it will not revive.”

But when the time came for another trial, I took the body, and with great care mixed in the required quantity of the water, and applied it to the face. The eyes opened, the tongue moved, the whole being awoke. I was not surprised at this sudden awakening, but I did not expect to have to exert myself so much. I was prepared for some short revival, which might be followed by the same rest. But the effect was as if the body had been regenerated. The next trial was to let it rest for three hours, and after this I put it into the water, and applied it to the face. This time the soul came to life, and in three hours had recovered from its death-like slumber. I was now satisfied that the original body was to be replaced by one animated with life.

It was difficult to determine the right place for this purpose, as it required a considerable amount of money. I took my time about it, and was undecided about a very large house, which was then occupied by my father. He had a very long-winded son, who lived in a small, close, flat, close, and then finally to a close, which was then occupied by a small man, a cook, and a postman. They were always at home, and their mere existence irritated me, as I had to listen to them every moment of the day. The money I had saved, and the rest of my money, were now spent in purchasing the casket.

I was delighted to find a servant, an old woman, who had charge of my rooms, and I gave her a very small sum, as I thought she would like it.

She, on her part, seemed to be so happy at the news of my action, that she called the cook, and ordered him to bring all the articles which she thought would go into a coffin. I then took a few precautions. I sent for a certain boy, who lived in the neighbourhood, and who was employed as a gardener, and had charge of the garden in which my father’s house stood. I told him that I wished to use his services in making a coffin, and gave him the necessary instructions.

I had a large store of furniture, and I employed the boy to pack it all up, and make a casket. I did not know what the thing was to be made of, and I had made a large mistake in the first attempt, so I decided to go and see my father, who had a shop in his house, where he sold, amongst other things, ironmongery.

When I arrived, he said, “I have a coffin to make for you, but it is quite impossible to make a casket out of iron.”

“What is the matter with it?” I asked.

“The joints are too weak. You must have something more strong.”

“Then,” I said, “give me something more strong.”

“The best I can give you is some wood,” he said.

“Wood!” I exclaimed. “I have only one piece of wood in the whole house, and it is too thick.”

“It will do,” he said.

“But I have a great store of iron.”

“Yes, but you will have to get it in a different shape.”

“Then give me a casket.”

“No,” he said, “you must make your own.”

“Then,” I said, “I must make a casket.”

“You must not,” he said, “for it will be very difficult.”

“I must,” I said, “for my life is in it.”

“I cannot let you make it.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because,” he said, “it will take you a long time to make it.”

“I will,” I said, “and then you must give me the money to buy the wood.”

“No,” he said, “I cannot.”

“Then,” I said, “I will go to my father, and he will give me the money.”

“No,” he said, “for it will cost you more than you can afford.”

“But I must,” I said, “for my life is in it.”

:: 04.23.2021_rev12.27.2025 ::


STENCH OF GOVERNMENT AUTHORIITY of REFUSAL

“what can I say
what can I do?
hate myself?”

I refuse myself
consume myself
— to find
the place I belong
wherever you say
is alright
and silence
is not the way

(heaven’s on the way)

so sleep
good night
watching authority
melt all night
but silence
is not right
we need to talk
about it.

:: 12.25.2025 ::


RENOVATIO

In the cracked marrow of old winters,
a single green blade dares the frost—
not rebirth, not resurrection,
but renovatio:

the slow, deliberate rewriting of ruin.
I have seen cities burn their own names
and rise again wearing stranger faces.
I have watched a black cat
sit in the empty apartment of a dead man
and claim the silence as his own kingdom.

So too the heart,
that stubborn architect,
takes the rubble of its former cathedrals
and builds smaller, truer chapels
where mercy can fit through the door.

Phillip, you who turn rage into pigment,
who date your poems into tomorrows
we have not yet earned—
you know this craft.
You tear the canvas,
spill the blood-reds,
then stitch light back into the wound
until the painting breathes.
Renovatio is not gentle.

It is the knife that removes the rot.
It is the fire that remembers
it was once a hearth.
And when the last ash settles,
something moves beneath it—
a pulse, a purr, a leap
like Chai across the midnight floor.
Old world, die cleanly.

New world, begin imperfectly.
We have time enough
for the slow miracle
of becoming

:: 12.23.2025 ::


LAW

law at the center,

freedom at the edges.

:: 12.12.2025 ::


CONSUMER SALVATION

[Consumer salvation failing its own messiah]

The messiah is an archetype humans hold mostly as God:
a final receipt, a lifetime warranty,
a being who will, for the low price of belief,
absolve the cart, empty the wish list,
deliver next-day peace.

So they dressed Him in limited-edition skin,
wrapped the cross in shrink-wrap,
turned the nails into loyalty points
that never quite redeem.

He stands now in the cathedral of the mall,
halo replaced by LED ring light,
hands raised not in blessing
but in that universal gesture:

Do you want fries with that?

The sermon streams in 4K:
Suffer now, pay later.

Your brokenness is trending.
Your pain is pre-approved.
He tries to speak in parables
but the algorithm keeps cutting
Him off at 60 seconds.
He tries to multiply loaves
but the bakery sues for copyright infringement.

He tries to heal the leper
security escorts Him out for not wearing shoes.

On Black Friday He is crucified again
between two flat-screen TVs,
crown of thorns rebranded
as a seasonal fashion statement,
marked down 70%.

His final words are lost
under doorbuster announcements
and the soft mechanical voice repeating:

Your call is important to us.
Please stay on the line.
The tomb is a storage unit
in a suburb that used to be a garden.

On the third day
the stone rolls back by itself
because the rental fee bounced.

He walks out empty-handed,
no merchandise, no rewards card,
no receipt to prove He ever belonged to them.

The messiah is an archetype humans hold mostly as God
until the return window closes.

Then He is just a man
with holes in His pockets
and nowhere left to spend or go.

:: 12.12.2025 ::


PIECES OF TIME

Time is fathomless, yes—but it is not a grave.

It is a river that remembers every footstep
that ever touched its banks. Names fade, forms loosen,
voices thin to echoes, yet meaning endures the way
stone endures weather: altered, never erased.

:: 12.12.2025 ::


JESUS IN ARMANI

He walked down Seventh Avenue
in a suit the color of storm-light,
Armani stitching holding together
what the world once nailed apart.

No halo—
only the low ember of a man
who has watched every century
try to erase him.

People stared
the way sheep stare at thunder,
uncertain whether to scatter
or kneel.

He did not speak.
He did not lift a hand
to bless or curse or gather.
He only walked—
sandals traded for leather,
robe traded for silk,
the same heart beating beneath.

As he passed
the glass cathedrals of want,
mannequins bowed
in their frozen hunger,
mirrors shivered,
recognizing their own reflection
in his quiet contempt.

A woman selling roses
felt her breath snag
on an old wound.
She offered one,
thorned and trembling.
He took it
the way only the ancient take anything—
with sorrow enough
to swallow empires
and mercy enough
to refuse the feast.
Some said model.
Some said ghost.
Some said madman
too expensive to ignore.

But the air bent around him
like light around a wound,
and the city—
dressed in its bright, glittering sins—
did what cities do:
it looked,
it lingered,
it forgot.
No sermon.
No miracle.

Just a man in Armani asking, without asking,
“Have you learned nothing?”

:: 12.11.2025 ::