the universe is a claim of a claim
the universe is a claim of a stake
to claim the universe is to direct the universe
the future direct the future
the future direct the stake of the future
the stake of the future is the direct of the future
the stake of the future is the stake of a direction

the universe is a direct universe
the universe is a direct claim
science claim science
the direction of the universe is the direction of science
to direct is to direct science to its claim
to direct is to direct the direction of science

Germane generic geeky guy
five sixths enroute
to complete lxiv luxurious Earth orbits
experienced chronic, demonic,
physiologically hegemonic...
irritable bowel syndrome
without shadow of a doubt,
yet aforementioned plight
the following lines of poetry
will not be about
problematic posterior plague.

After contemplating discomfort
linkedin with said medical condition,
yours truly realized aftermath
of Hurricane Ian concerning
those who weathered category storm
suffered a fate much worse
subsequently, I took a brief hiatus

Hugh MacDiarmid wrote "The Watergaw" in a Scots dialect. I have translated the poem into modern English to make it easier to read and understand. A watergaw is a fragmentary rainbow. 

The Watergaw
by Hugh MacDiarmid
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The deafening silence
Seeping into my soul
Like water slowly flowing
Through cracks in a pavement
It permeates into every nook and cranny
Of this place we always call home
Shattering piece by piece
The familiarity of your presence
These walls are the sole witness
Of our triumphs and defeats
Each corner has heard our cries
It reverberates all of our laughter
As I sit alone here our your room
I inhale the faint scent of your memories
The endless ache brings water to my eyes
And a profound longing in my heart
From this day forward

sometimes i wake up holding shape in suspense
did the gutter catch the ball before the fielder did?

if yes peeking there from the shadows shingled
on silence : a baithook form of breathing with
hands queased in his pockets like fish in redtides.

was it boredom or doubt or distrust that cut
that earthworm in two to see if it’s true they never
died when divided but bided and then multiplied
and bursting revealed salt inside as if tears dried?

the ball’s red hope caught and reeled in (can i play

When I sense inner
plights of others, say, and walk
inside their torn shoes

that is empathy
without the slightest shadow
of some merest doubt

For lost soul malaise
whose deep pain goes unnoticed
by the look of things

To listen is a
form of therapy even
for the listener