While the crickets are chirpety with the 60 degree coolness, I’m still all t-shirt and shorts.  I’ll probably lose the t around 53, lose the shorts around 42, lose the bugs around 39, and lose my mind somewhere down the line…

But will the ensuing seasonal drive towards darkness with its attendant frostiness rein in my inspiration to write out of doors?  Almost everything I’ve written all summer was under the open sky.  Now it appears I’m doomed to once again begin the downward spiral on the comfort scale with regards to al fresco compositions.  The time approaches, if I remain a creature of thermal susceptibilities, when I’m bound to just say ‘fuck it’.  Yes?  But what if, instead, I make a sport of it?  Challenge myself to embrace the inimical and make it mine?  Stay out and blog long after all others have retired to their heated abodes leaving me alone, behind? 

Why?  But why? 

Because the sustaining fire in the belly recapitulates the birthing fire in the sky. 

Yet, while even the greatest dawning cosmic blazes are themselves incommunicado specks reclused in space, my dreams remain dreams of reaching out, bridging heart, melding spirit, compressing time, drawing closer to both genesis and fate, moment by moment, by infusing words with my own quirky yet irrepressible sense of life.   No doubt I’ll be losing my mind, no doubt …somewhere gone and long ago.

I was just running in the cemetery and got attacked by a would-be terrorist.  His weapon of choice was a potentially-exploding projectile lobbed downward into my vicinity from the advantage of a heightened platform.  The projectile didn’t explode on impact, but it did take a wicked bounce toward me and I actually had to jump over it as it bounced along to avoid its impact.  Being nimble, I survived.  Damn squirrel in the tree—I know that nut was meant for me.

So, I pretty much just ran and work-hustled through the summer.  Strangely the time did flow.  I had to deal regularly with fatigue, injury, pain, stress, and numerous personal disappointments.  Yet I had some fine times with you guys here generally, and in some instances, individually.  Still, my blogging time available crept to an all-time low.  How long do you stare at a mosquito sucking blood out of your arm before you smack it?  It seemed, at times, that that was just about the span of time I had for this.  This.  What is this?

This is THE Event.  or a non-event.  This is my soul.  or a cyber-hole.   This is virtue in space.  or a virtual waste(land).  This is glyphic immortality.  or something merely e-mortally blah-ed.  This is the birth of a blogging odyssey.  or the death march of a blogged-out Peter Pan.  This is a flow of imagination mediated by words.  or a slew of pompous pretensions posing as turds.  This is a totally creative outlet letting me in.  or a bare set of technological presets where, like a mounted butterfly, I become sterilely pinned.  This is a compassionate community where I can get what I give.  or a sibling society where all our syllables merge blithely bland.  This is a vital expression of freedom taken to the max.  or a lugubrious outpouring of ennui contrived as a hack.  This is a mix of experience, a striving for excellence and a quest for exquisite eloquence twirled into a delicious desert.  or this is adulterated dirt—predictably granular but otherwise sensibly inert.  This is our magical new artform celebrated through multimedia trysts.  or a basin of commiseration where our storm-sunk colloquialisms rust. 

This.  What is this?  This is us bursting upon the blogging frontier.

Tomorrow,  at 5:46 a.m EST, occurs the Fall Equinox, also known as: Alban Elfed, Autumn Equinox, Autumnal Equinox, Cornucopia, Feast of Avilon, Festival of Dionysus, Harvest Home, Harvest Tide, Mabon, Night of the Hunter, Second Harvest Festival, Wine Harvest, Witch's Thanksgiving, and the first day of autumn.

Come autumn in the cemetery, berries and faeries duly abound…

For an extraordinarily balanced and comprehensive portrayal of Fall Equinox celebrations, scoot thither.

How are you going to celebrate?

I was asked that question recently, and…

I'd love to observe the equinox in grand style, make an effort to watch the sun both rise and set (weather permitting), lay out after sunset on the hood of my truck under a clear country sky, recite the names of the stars I know and invent new names for those I don't, write an ode to the subtle suzerainty of such a faintly luminous sky, then dream of the revealing and unraveling possible under the tender watch of a lover’s harvesting eyes.

(embellished)  J

The relationship-chain is perpetual pain.

The scythe swings again—but can’t duck.

What faired in the yester is today’s compost—

Daisies ought not to die for such luck.

‘She loves me’, ‘she loves me’, ‘she loves me…’

You see, I pulled every other petal.

But her words cut like a knife cause I was ‘not’-ed,
And my heart has been skewered with her metal.

Seems I’ve wasted my whole life on romance,

deigning for tenderness, thirsting for kisses.

Yet morrow the reaper will visit or

The trickster, perhaps, will come first.

And I’ll be one no one misses:

Love-sucked by death’s thirst.

I’m not infringed upon by the boisterousness of two lovers rolling in the grass a few tombstones away.  Nor by the Boy Scouts who apparently are camping here about the cemetery (where I sit) and who have just goofed by.  For my thoughts are of a time apart and a place away.  And though my body lingers in this moment with its possibilities for pleasure but also pain, I’m psychically already seduced by tomorrow as surely as yesterday I was pimped for today. 

The waterface of life is where the ocean meets the sky.  Therein lies the cosmic exchange.  Who can follow that endless vaporous stream outward toward all that outlies? 

There’d not be much fun in such a quest.  Much true adventure is relatively bereft of fun.  Yes, you still make what you can out of what’s at hand.  But true adventure is a calling out to leave behind the common vocation of routine work and entertainment both.  It’s often tantamount to being re-birthed without template. Care to start again without a clue?  Dare to risk all that’s known to discover what may be found?

Of what adventure do I speak?  The adventure of living—the fate of man.

Inspired by someone who likes *toys*

It is now largely forgotten that the world was once catastrophically threatened with hysteria.  More dangerous than the post-modern threat of a terrorist attack, hysteria challenged humanity and drove the greatest minds to strive for innovative relief.  Does this claim sound hysterical? It isn’t (Well, maybe it is.  But then that would be consistent with this blog’s theme!). 

Actually, in the latter half of the 19th century, there occurred a medical pandemic among women which was labeled “hysteria” with symptoms ranging broadly to include lassitude,  irritability, depression, confusion, palpitations of the heart, headaches, forgetfulness, insomnia, muscle spasms, stomach upsets, writing cramps, ticklishness, weepiness, abnormal fear, unexplained sweating, and excessive vaginal lubing (unprovoked sexual readiness)—in other words, almost anything!  It was, at that time, deemed that about 80%  of women suffered from this critical “dementia.”   The medical  solution?  Hand massage of the vulva until the patient reached orgasm!  Yes, many doctors (all males) spent much of the latter part of the 19th century masturbating women who flocked to doctors’ office for the “cure.”  (Tragically enough, women who couldn’t reach orgasm so-assisted due to a predisposition for clitoral orgasm—which wasn’t induced—were diagnosed as “sexually immature” by the likes of Freud and his brethren and constrained to years of unfruitful, even psychically-damaging, therapy to convince them to induce orgasms only in the vagina.  But that is another story…)

You might think that this was a pie job (little jack horner, sat in a corner…stuck in his thumb, made her bum hum) for horny male doctors.  But actually, the doctors were generally extremely overworked, distressfully fatigued, and in desperate search of a faster, less draining solution to saving femininity—and thus humanity—since every informed intellect was aware that “hysteria” would take down the pillars of civilization, if unabated. 

But this was the age of the steam engine, the steamboat, and forays into canal construction.  Little wonder then that eventually a real man (Dr. George Taylor, 1869) would devise a coal-fed, steam-powered contraption called the “Manipulator”  for pelvic massages (paddle that pelvis, down that lazy river…)  Unfortunately, the dimensions and expense of this orgasm-assistant were such as to make it unpractical in all but very formal institutional settings.

Yet, lo and behold, another doctor was thinking *small*  and devised the first battery-powered, portable vibrator (Mortimer Granville—1883), “good ole Mort”.  However, though a fantastic innovator, he was morally-stodgy in asserting that his invention was not for assisting female orgasms but merely for the excitation of men’s skulls.  Right, dude.  And condoms are balloons.  And handcuffs in the bedroom are in case you need to arrest a burglar breaking in at night.  (Didn’t he realize that once the women got a-humming that men’s skulls would get all the excitation they could handle anyways??!!)

Immensely popular from the onset, this invention, marketed as the Weiss vibrator, was almost as tremendous a relief to doctors worn down by vulva-throbbing as it was it was to the women 'undergoing' this newest electromechanical 'therapy'.  No wonder a recent study of female portraiture pre- and post-vibrator periods shows women’s post-smiles spreading wider by at least a quarter-inch!

Fact: The vibrator was only the fifth household device to be electrified, after the sewing machine, fan, tea kettle and toaster, and preceding by about a decade the vacuum cleaner and electric iron – obviously suggestive of a woman’s true priorities.

Hurricane Isabel wasn't a belle.

Yet Iraq is now our wreck (regressed verbally: Areq)

And me?  I think I serve pretty much perpetually  unreciprocally unserved.

But then again, maybe I missed catching the buzz at the office party.

What office party?

The Secrets of Happy Blogging

1) Hide.  Hide away forever in prolific obscurity.  Unveil the fire in your soul with such an entirely uneruptive cosmic insistence, that hidden, it yet remains a Sphinxlike mystery to all.

2) Remember: If you say, you don't know.  And if you know, you don't say.  If you say you don't know ( "I know Nothing!"), you're Sgt.  Schultz !

3) If you get discovered, don't vapor lock. Be generous with effusively kind remarks for your subscribers though in the midst of this most personal of disappointments.

4) If your a guy, look out for the girls.  If your a girl, look out for the guys.  If you're yourself, well, then just look out!

5) Never wonder where anyone on the blog has "gone".  Either they have gone yonder to the Happy Blogging Ground or they've regained their sanity and are now likely silently assisting you to do the same.  In other words, don't worry, be happy

6) Begin to recycle your blogs after about a year.  Thus unfettered by the daily need to be ever-newly creative you will thrive!  Don't be too concerned about your readers encountering reruns: most bloggers don't even last a year and so won't be around to reread them; and those that have remained through your first year's gestation ( er...1% ?) have likely abandoned reading you long ago ( hi Holly ).  Newer readers + older blogs = immortality!

7) Keep your sense of humor.  That's right--NEVER share it with anyone.  Else you'll turn out like virgilmvx : a plastiblogform subject to the endless purgatoriums of snorting readership.  Yes, you're readers will delight, but you?  You'll forever wonder if you're even wearing underwear, and be forced to constantly check to reassure yourself one way or the other throughout the day.

8)

9)

10) Never become a slave to the expectations of your readers.  Were you expecting more for 8) ?  for 9)??  I (you) shouldn't care!  If peeps are howling for you to remain the same, dare to be different!  If peeps marvel in and become demonstratively dependent upon your ever-changing blogging facets, don't disdain to hold ground and remain the same!  *Thou must become a conundrum until thyself and thereby recapitulate all the chaos of existence!*--not. 

11) Remember: if you really knew how much peeps generally think about you, you wouldn't much care what they thought about you.  Love them nonetheless, for amongst them may be your greatest allies and friends!

12) If in a creative bind and unable to burp up even one original or interesting remark, play with PlayDough or count M&Ms.  But don't eat the PlayDough!

13) If you have a need to suffer through *the ordeal* of bloggin to be happy, sleep at the keyboard.  You'll wake up remorseless with your sacrifice as a sentinel of the unsaid!

14)  If you're really schizoid, you've got it made!  Establish as many personalities as you quirkily require and then comment to your most amazing selves.  If you're not so blessed, fear nonetheless to metamorphosize occasionally into another blogging persona.  At last count, I had 58! lol rof lol

15)  If you don't know how to end a blog (er..well, yes...I have a problem here), just pretend you're Paul Harvey, grab your balls (if you don't have any, pretend) and intonate "Good *now squeeze* Day!"

10:30

I saw you without your panties on the webcam.
I know you didn’t know.
The cam had slipped and repositioned

and with the resolution set to ‘fine’

my manly attention froze beyond volition

on your stark and unsecretly becoming naughtiness.

With each floating butterfly hum of your thighs,

my lips parted with hot passion as if to blow

a kiss upon your rubyness

(the color which your cheeks would have turned
had you known how intrusively my libido yearned

to lick the lens that violated

all cyber-etiquette so wetly.)
I had to do it, I had to do it:
I snapped

some screenshots of your fingers teasing

what my beastly voyeurism found vastly overpleasing.

And then autonomously I, too, equally succumbed

to your self-indulging pleasure

that I took as a candid measure

of how you felt for me.

It was a carnal accident—it wasn’t dirty.

So how about it?

Want to do it again tonight at 10:30?

Ten reasons for avoiding becoming a Statistics professor...

I’ve taught stats at the graduate level for years as an adjunct professor.  But there are some very good reasons to altogether avoid doing so and, in my case, for continuing my yearlong ‘sabbatical’ :

1. Most stats are just sad.  Listening to their recital is like observing a convention of dogs crying at a memorial service for lost bones.


2. Teaching sadistics, I mean statistics, can hamper your creativity.  Impromptu stream-of-consciousness thinking and statistics cannot coexist at the same time in the same brain.


3. “Don’t blame the messenger,” never washes with statistics students.  In their minds, the professor is always “the asshole”.


4. Every once in a while, you’ll find a student that really does like statistics.  But it usually turns out that the student is so strange, it’s frightening.  That gets you to thinking about how others are looking at you…


5. Teaching statistics—six hours of class contact and 70 hours per week of preparations—just doesn’t pay as well as other side jobs such as house-painting.   Hence, the opportunity cost of teaching stats is comparatively excessive.   I have statistics to back up this assertion, but dare not bore you with them.


6. Stats are not sexy.  Even 36-24-36 doesn’t seem to do it for me anymore.


7. Being a stats professor makes you an ‘evil enabler’ since most of your students will use statistics like a drunk uses a lamp-post: for support and not for illumination.


8. Statisticians aren’t allowed to play with children’s toys because they regress so easily.


9. On the average, the average statistician says “on the average” significantly more often than the average person.  And that’s simply annoying to the average person with typical heartfelt sentiment.


10. Numbers are hard to love.  And give no love in return.  On the average.  So why fuck with them?

I believe that the substance injected into mummies to preserve them is related to the cream in a Twinkie!

Did you know that all the Popes get mummified?  Twinkified with a shelf-life one day short of forever.

Burn out and decline
or
Rise and shine?

That is the question.

"Well, I woke up Sunday morning with no way to hold my head that didn't hurt.  And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad, so I had one more for dessert..."

 -Johnny Cash

*tips a sunday morning beer to Johnny*

*waves*

*waves*

*waves*

*waves*

*waves*

I like to make waves.

(from a Category 5 Wave-maker)

If you lived in a chocolate house, would you eat yourself out of house and home?

Do you know the right way to take a seat in a car?  Yes, there is a right way, according to health experts, a way that’s recommended to avoid incurring painful or disabling back injuries.  You open the door, back your behind down by gently pivoting to 180 degrees away from the door, and then back down into the seat with both feet still on the ground.  Then, as you pivot your torso 90 degrees to face the front of the vehicle, you gently lift one foot from the ground and place it on the floorboard, and then do the same with the other.  You know, you’ve seen ‘old people’ do this and you probably thought that they were ‘stiff’—not supple enough to just plop into the car.

Well, I’ve no excuse.  I know the right way, but never execute it.  I’m hellbent.  I’m devil-may-car(e).  And I always enter my vehicle like an ace fighter pilot on a mission to save the world: Leaping, twisting, flagellating, cavorting in every which way—including loose.  So should it be any mystery that this Monday currently past, I launched myself like a Sputnik hurling a monkey into space, plopped like a kick-drop into my seat, took one torque-turn too many to the right and subluxated my lumbar (lower back).  Yiaaaahhh!   At least I wasn’t making love at the time, or how would I explain that?  “Sorry baby, but even the thought of your softness is too resistantly painful for me to continue beyond this moment.” ?

As a result of my Elvis-imitation gyrations, I missed out on some work Monday, worked but with great pain on Tuesday, missed out again on Wednesday, and today, Thursday, still in excruciating pain, I’ve taken a half day off to….to….  rest?  No!  Got a life—Fucking run!  It’s a beautiful day here in N. Ohio: cloudless, 80 degrees, low humidity, and a gentle breeze.   So how could I resist?  What?   The allure, the seduction, and the ultimate pain in running with a subluxated disk ?!  But let me tell you this: never underestimate a cemetery blogger-runner.  We may seem to the outer world like lost angels without wings, or Neanderthals with mindless strength bent only on macho things.  But there’s a curious method to our method, and an intrepid  madness to our madness, and forever in a stranglehold shall they grip each other. 

So, in the cemetery, I run laps that are approximately 1.4 miles.  (Okay, they are exactly 1.4 miles, but you really don’t have a need-to-know that!) 

My first lap today would have failed to even qualify in a kindergartener’s race to a snack bar at recess.  I was waiting for someone to say: “I mean, we know you’re dying Jack, but could you at least pick up the pace?” 

My second lap today was a matter of:  “Buddha believed that life is delusion (samsara) and pain—and you are his poster child.”. 

Third lap, hang on tight.  Faster—it’s alright. 

Fourth lap, muscular functional templates reassert.  Sublaxations are autonomously targeted for correction.  All stiffness is transformed into tingling.  I feel high!

Fifth lap, normal running resumes, I start to press myself competitively again and arrive at my seven mile destination with a sense of gain and no pain.

Hippocrates said it:  “Doctor, heal thyself.”

All I have to say is that Hippocrates probably would have made one helluva cemetery blogger-runner.

Post-blog:  Still here in Dreamland, just now, just this very now, I got an urgent call from my daughter informing me that her grandpa passed away (euphemism for continuing on into the Golden Eternity ) within the hour.  So I will join her shortly.  But  first, I will sit here on the cemetery hill, have a beer, say a prayer. 

Synchronicity underlies all that love and honor overlies.

have I gone too far?
the ancient taoists warned: the farther you go , the less you know.
have I spent too much energy shaking my branches when I should have been sinking my roots?
am I with the wind gone to the farthest corner, the only lonely corner,
the one-you-cannot-find-because-I’ve-just-invented-it-that’s-how-far-I’ve-gone gone corner?
or have I been merely revving my motorcycle at the starting line with the actual race soon about to start? and the corner that will soon test me is the one where I could wipe out?
or like a satellite getting ready to get slung around the corner of the sun for ultrathrust into endless amazing space…am I sailing smoothly towards the cosmos like a man’s hand upon a pretty girl’s petticoat lace?
or haven’t I gone far enough?

As a small tribute, my readers here on Xanga for the past week are vicariously celebrated in the story below. The story and the characters involved change on every reload. I think I'll just reload for awhile, cut and paste a few lines, and come up with a new poem (Okay, so that's how I generate all my poetry--now you know).

Anyway, if you don't see the story above, you're probably either not using Internet Explorer or are a behind a blocking firewall. Under such dire circumstances, you can still click here to read the story.

What a strangeness always the world brings when you open yourself up to it vastly.  No room for routine as each succeeding surprise washes upon you like a tingling ocean wave.  One learns how foolish mundane *expectations* can be.  One learns to live like a tourist in a potentially predatory universe… 

To live like a tourist in a potentially predatorial universe seems to me to be not simply a valuable strategy, but an indispensable one. Conversant tourism predisposes one to engagement with a probing awareness, to sensitized discernment, and to activity without habituated involvement.  Precisely: take in everything possible with heightened perception while never settling into a pre-fabricated template—a habit. For it is the nature of habits to inhibit conscious awareness for the sake of optimizing an efficiency in performance of some well-rehearsed structured task ("good" and "bad" habits are the same in this respect). But in a universe which can be changeable and predatorial, yet the structure of which is otherwise largely unknown, habits—either good or bad—may turn into fatal assets without warning.

Stay strong, stay well, and be blessed—all.

What the hell is this ?

Now from the Xanga rebel (myself) that introduced a horde of you to 20six, an even more amazing alternative:

Tipic's 

Hi jewel ! It's been 1801 (wow, that's a big number) days since you joined Xanga... won't you support us by going Premium?

Hi Pan ! It's been 899 (wow, that's a big number) days since you joined Xanga... won't you support us by going Premium?

Hi notforprophet !   You have a beloved donor, who wishes to remain anonymous, yet has gifted you a lifetime of Premium.

Thanks, dear donor!  Jewel, you suck.  Pan sucks, too.

Why do only male turkeys gobble?

And why do male bees (fatherless half-clones of the queen) only have a sexual function—no sting, no honey?

And why do we say “Mosquitoes bite.”  when it’s only the female mosquito with the need to nourish her sac-bound young with our blood that so gruesomely predates and feeds?

What of Carlos Casteneda’s report of Don Juan’s (the Yaqui sorcerer) claim that 99% of all the beings in the entire universe are female? 

And why are 2/3rds of all Xangans female?

hrmm…

*wonders if female Xangans make honey*

One year later...and I'm feeling exactly this way again :

I have nothing I should complain about.  Really.  Even the matter of having absolutely no sex life.  Hey, at least I got my mind.  It seems to me, everyone out there screwing and fucking around is absolutely mindless.  They’re like tumbleweeds  ripped by the vagary of desire out of the ground and now just bouncing and howling around.  My mind, on the other hand remains profound, prolific and as pendantly obtuse as a giant sequoia unbothered by the bitching breezes of lust.  Maybe it’s all a matter of sinking my roots, and not shaking my branches.

Or maybe not.

They said of the instant: “You’re brilliant.”

But who wants to swallow the Sun?

I’d rather, like Li Po, embrace the final shimmer

of the moon in the river

than fuel a moment’s  incandescence

with a self-immolating quiver.

“But you shed so much light!”

Yet comes the night.

And I’d deign to be a cat

upon my mistress’ lap

shedding my downy fur

under her tender
fluffing caress—

Light-shedders are not apt
to know such tenderness.

“Block-buster kick-ass!”
What?  Another kiss of death?

If I had a choice of oxygen

fed to me forever through a tube or…

I’d take one sweet last breath.

I believe that when I was an infant that a heroic form of surgery was performed upon me that removed a part of my brain to save my life.  And, for that, I am thankful.

I also believe that lacking that part of my brain makes me different.  I seem to always miss ‘the whole picture’ that most of you, whether for good or bad, seem to get.

And further, I believe that the absence of that part of my brain even prevents me from actually mentally realizing that I am different.  This realization, here right now, that I am different, comes not cognitively—that’s not possible, but only through a blind leap into the darkness of my intrepid intuition.

I am thankful for this moment of self-discovery.   I am even more thankful for this fissure in the fabric of soul-space that has allowed me to know and love you so.  And despite my baseline diminishment, faith has gapped the void, and I love you, nonetheless.

Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure or nothing. 

   --Helen Keller

I should probably be frightening the crap out of everyone today.  The phrase “with extreme prejudice” resounds again and again—as if an order—in my head.  Is that my prior military training flashing back or merely some pathology infecting my mind? Feeling unlackadaisical even though lost, I ‘m like a wandering renegade samurai with an unsheathed sword.  It would seem like I should be able to render all insensate with a single swift swing.  But I don’t know why I am not projecting this terror….

So I walk into a coffee shop and assume a place in line.  While waiting, I notice a utility razor with a projecting blade sitting on a freshly opened stack of today’s newspapers. As the line peels away and I get my turn, the attendant asks me promptly what she can get for me.  Deftly with a  warrior’s acumen, I grab the utility knife, thrust it towards her—handle jutting first,  cutting edge towards me—insisting “No,… what can I get you?”, my question building in a purposefully powerful crescendo.  She giggles nervously, then graciously disarms me (disarmed by a woman again—is that my life’s story?).  She still awaits my answer…*taps*… as I gaze around and then up to the daily bulletin board.  It features a daily trivia question that gives 10 cents off your purchase for a correct response.  Today’s question is: “What are the ashes made out of that are used on Ash Wednesday?”    Without thought or emotion, I unblithely blurt out: “The teeth of pagans’ slain pet dragons.”  The girl humors me, “You’re right!”  But I add quickly, “Palm fronds, of course.”  She nods once in acknowledgement, and follows-up laughingly, “I like your first answer better!” 

Damn it, girl.  I’m shoving knives at you, I’m speaking of dragon’s teeth without even smiling, I’m right on the edge of primal defilements--and your reception of me is so pleasantly cordial???   I give up!  What’s the use!  Smile back and say gently , “I’ll have a medium to go, dear.”  

…the Beast next turns his attention to the deadly cream and sugar.

Faeries steal secret dreams
And elves put them to stage,
Sprites will reenact your entire youth
While you watch...and age.

And now, for an nfp counter-rhyme original:

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are!
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are!

Rumble, rumble, Giant Red,

Supernova up ahead!

Permutations soon to be,
How I love all I can see.

Rumble, rumble, Giant Red,

Glad to meet you, now we’re dead.