The hand of the diligent maketh rich

 He becometh poor that dealeth with a slack hand: but the hand of the diligent maketh rich.
Psalm 10:4

Keeping busy is a knack

I'm afraid that I do lack.

I just like to sit and think;

that's why all my prospects shrink.

I admire industry --

long as it don't include me.

Watching other people sweat

makes my bread taste better yet.

I stay poor and shabby, but

I still nap well in my hut.

When I reach the Promised Land

chances are I will be banned . . . 

Photo Essay: Postcards to A.G. Sulzberger, Head Gadjo Rob Reed, Governor Gary Herbert, and Senator Mitt Romney.

To:  NYT Publisher A.G. Sulzberger

To: Head Gadjo Rob Reed

To: Utah Governor Gary Herbert

To: Senator Mitt Romney

Zombies and Algorithms

How come zombie TV shows never show zombies 
watching TV
shows?
There's a discrepancy there that needs looking into.
And why don't zombie TV shows show zombies texting 
each other?
"Arrrghhh"
"Glorrrrggg"
That kind of thing.
Are we to believe that the undead
have turned their back on social media?
Preposterous!
It weakens the credibility of the whole zombie genre.
Really, the way those lazy writers have haphazardly put together zombie tropes, you might as well call them algorithms as zombies.
Or bots.
The POTUS has realized this,
and so the zombie/algorithms
now put warning labels 
on his tweets.
Because he is about 
to reveal who the real
zombies are.
And they are not Democrats
or Republicans
or the Chinese
or journalists -- 
the real zombies are
the gadjos. 
So put that in your cimbalom
until next week.

Photo Essay: Postcards to my President. Vol 32.

The liberal word

 Now I would that ye should understand that the word of God was liberal unto all, that none were deprived of the privilege of assembling themselves together to hear the word of God.

Alma 6:5

Priceless, yet without expense --

the word of God we shall dispense.

So liberal the spread shall be

to have the opportunity

to gather under thatch or tile

to hear the truth sans any guile

that millions more will yet profess

to covenants and faithfulness.

While those who think God's word too strict

will find themselves a sad relict.

My time in quarantine

So I had decided to use my time in quarantine creating something
 so fantastic,
 so sublime,
 so ridiculous,
 that I would become a standard footnote in the books on Pandemic History that would one day
be published.
I tried
bottling the breath 
of smokers,
cuz I figured they would all eventually
die in this pandemic,
so it would be scientifically 
useful to have a sample of their
fetid breath.
It's easy to approach smokers.
They want to talk and be cooperative.
They're like
serial killers who are finally caught
and want to spill their guts to reporters.
I captured the breath of four smokers, in Mason jars with tight lids, before 
the R.J. Reynolds people
got to me.
They beat me up, then dumped me
in an abandoned refrigerator box.
Next I started knitting the biggest
woolen cap in the world.
The Ambassador from Finland paid me
a visit.
Then paid me a bribe
to stop knitting.
I can't say how much
he paid me.
But I can say that if you leave a
negative comment about this piece anywhere 
on the internet,
I'll have my good friend Jeff Bezos
cancel your Amazon Plus 
subscription. 
I am that rich and well connected now.
So now I spend my time in quarantine doing family history and rewriting my will.
Who wants to be just an odd footnote in history, anyway?

Let the hills be joyful together

Let the floods clap their hands: let the hills be joyful together.

Psalm 98:8

Rise above the welter of depression, O my soul!

Know the God of miracles rules over all the whole.

Rushing waters bravely serenade the festive hills,

telling one and all that Christ has borne our sins and ills.

Help my spirit soar, O Lord, until I reach the heights

far above the mountaintops to taste thy keen delights!

The landlord said "Get out."

The landlord said "Get out. You never pay rent anymore."
So I got out.
I went to live with my aunt, until she said
"Get out. You leave dirty dishes in the sink."
So I got out.
I went to live with a friend in his basement apartment.
But things came out of the woodwork and took him away.
Then his mother upstairs said "Get out. You bring bad luck."
So I got out.
I lived in my car, until a cop said "You can't do that. Get out
and get a job or something."
So I got out.
But I couldn't find a job. Or a place to live.
And then I was hungry.
So I ate berries on a bush in a park.
The berries gave me super powers,
which I used to build small houses for people
just like me.
Each house had a front porch and a shade tree.
Inside were rag rugs on the floor, made by the Amish.
Wallpaper that could smell like cinnamon or vanilla,
depending on your mood.
In the bathroom the towels were fluffy and never damp.
The kitchen featured a wooden bowl that remained full
of fresh grapes, figs, bananas, oranges, and apples,
no matter how many you ate.
There was an endless supply of paper towels, 
with interesting facts printed on them.
Like:  "Augusta is the capital of Maine."
The refrigerator was always stocked with Swiss cheese
and hard boiled eggs.
And the beds felt like a day in early spring when you're in love
for the first time.
I built hundreds of these small houses all over the world
and gave them away to displaced families, widows, and orphans.
My super powers made certain no government or private 
organization
could ever take their homes away from them.
And their tap water tasted like Hawaiin Punch forevermore. 

The Secret of the Lord

 The secret of the Lord is with them that fear him; and he will shew them his covenant.
Psalm 25:14

To many Christianity is nothing but a teaser;

they only understand about the cruel things of Caesar.

The fear of God to them appears a foolish proposition;

their egos cannot deal with Christ's most gentle admonition.

The secret of the Lord of Hosts with all his mighty power

is open to the soul who sees the beauty of a flower;

to those who manage to achieve a child-like trusting wonder

the voice of God's a lullaby, and not a distant thunder.

The Laughing Trees

Every night at eight, ever since the world ran out of humor, the trees begin laughing.
Oh, it's easy to miss the sound.
Laughter doesn't come naturally to anyone, or anything, anymore.
It's not a loud guffaw or high pitched giggle.
More of a gentle, whispering chuckle.
Or even like the kind of sigh we used to make after a big long laugh,
like after watching Chaplin eating his own boot in 'The Gold Rush."
Somehow our suppressed and supposedly extinct laughter has sunk into the water table, and the trees have drunk it up.
Now, every night at eight, if you listen real close, and are near
a bunch of trees,
you will hear them begin to titter and snicker,
and then break out into warm chuckles.
What are they laughing at?
Maybe us.
Maybe themselves.
Maybe nothing in particular.
It lasts for about fifteen minutes,
then gradually fades away
as if someone were slowly 
turning off a water tap
until there is just a drip.
And then nothing,
and the Night is silent and meaningless again.