G_d is THEE POET. He made them all, by the way, who say they are poets, who write lofty stuff, even the greatest of the great: Here I sit, broken-hearted..and contrite of soul, –spirit upon body laying there in a heap having overspent every cheap trick in the poetry racket to make my immortal work; but all in vain! all is vanity!! (you see). The greatest poetry is in the Bible, all else is far below, inferior in splendor and wonderment, –song! contemplating thee, ahh, the navel, uh, academy. Ahem. We all, all us poets! like to think he has a sense of humor..it seems he does deign to humor us, we poets, posting our postulations along the lines, our lines, lyrical outpourings, all done online, now – typewriter’s quite a thing of the past – reaching the populations of the world, the computing populaces with computers in their lap’s, reading, writing into them the laptop’s; arrhythmically..tic! tic, tic-tic! blankly staring at the product (likely an ill-fitting verse that just wants TO BE..). The old days were better, when, disgusted! the poet – self-named – could pull the errant page from the typewriter wadding it in clenched fist, and throwing it over the shoulder, impiously, into the circular file where it belongs, i.e., The Trash-can, “There, it’s done!”..the executive decision; like that of the LORD God of the Old Testament, having separated Noah and his people, for a remnant, from the remainder of the wicked earth, and safely delivering them – and their animals – in the ark, upon dry land with a promise; and its ever present reminder, that of the bare blush of a spectral bow..hovering in the blue, after the rain-clouds go trotting off in the overhanging skies of purest, sweetest air: I shall never throw my celestial typewriter in the drink. Ever ‘gain! Thee ENN