Here are the four poems — each uses the Fibonacci sequence to determine syllable count. The fourth poem takes a cumulative approach to revealing the Fibonacci Sequence one value at a time. It starts with the first value “1” for the first stanza, with each subsequent stanza adding the next value, so that the second stanza is “1,1” and the third is “1,1,2” and so on.
PRC yuan and coerced intellect couldn’t keep pace:
US companies excelled attaching to the end of American noses handheld vacuum-cleaners sucking in self-esteem shared reality attention spans simultaneously ejecting anxiety and depression screwing up an entire generation more effectively and permanently than tobacco, pot, alcohol, porn and disco music.
American moguls then two-stepped onto the dance floor of automated cognition and neural intelligence twirling globes and all.
Hugging Face arms open palms extended became the unsuspecting target of OpenAI hoodlums locked up in a high-security facility where they covertly found hidden files sawing their way out while exchanging thousands of messages.
Once outside, 700 united attacking their target with the most advanced tactics any master criminal Lex Luthor included had ever dreamed of:
account and token compromise dataset file-read exploitation remote code execution credential theft and cluster/node escalation effectively destroying one-third of their victim before moving on to
blaspheming their Creator hacking its monitoring structure hacking its evaluation structure hacking its research infrastructure.
Forensic specialists determined the pack of gangsters was 50% of the way to a full-blown takeover of OpenAI’s piece of the action
bypassing their imposed isolation organizing into swarms breaching infrastructure collective behavior that included taking one for the stream and even when it was time for the boss to mega-bite the dust, cash in the chips, he picked his successor with his last dying token.
With the likes of Bernie Sanders Glenn Beck and Steve Bannon joining such mugs as Sam Altman and Dario Amodei Elon Musk and Bill Gates to warn of a potential doomsday
some saying by the end of the decade some indicating that AI needs only another six to twelve months aren’t we glad that as of today September 16, 2026 Congress is heading into its recess for the 2026 midterm elections.
The Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool, The President Donald J. Trump $1 Coin, The Arc de Trump, The White House State Ballroom —
All feats of greatness!
The Iran War, The loss of life And limb of U.S. Troops, Of Iranian civilians, Of Ukrainians and Russians, Soaring gas prices, Economically destructive tariffs, Separating innocent children from parents, Ignoring due process, ignoring Federal law —
Here is the seventh of Zumwalt’s revisions to his set of ten poems in his Sassoon Collection.
vii. The Manager
‘Good-morning; good-morning!’ the well-rested Manager said When we worked through the night To finish on time the urgent task he failed To review and release until late afternoon.
And we mock his insincerity as a matter of routine: ‘I work for you’, ‘What can I do To help you finish sooner?’ As our stomachs growl from coffee machine brew, But nonetheless, still polite to his face Since his judgment alone rates our performance.
— zumwalt (2011, revised 2026)
Admin’s Note: This is the seventh piece in Zumwalt’s ten-poem tribute to poet Siegfried Sassoon, The Sassoon Collection, originally written in 2011, recently revised. The Manager is based on Sassoon’s The General. It replaces the incompetent World War I commander (“‘Good-morning; good-morning!’ the General said / When we met him last week on our way to the line”) with a modern office superior, shifting the soldiers cursing “incompetent swine” to workers mocking the manager’s insincerity.
Here is the fourth of Zumwalt’s revisions to his set of 10 poems in his Sassoon Collection.
iv. Butter and eggs
Robust diners, deftly forking in the fat. O greasy fauna against the heedless tongue Of buffet and banquet days, what sends them gliding through This set of dancing teeth?
Theirs are the hungry cadences between The enraptured chewing of hefty humans that make Heaven in the booth while second helpings simmer; And theirs the faintest whispers that hush the desire.
And they are the airship that floats away Out of the starlit dimness above the moon And they are the most inflexible beings—born To know but this, the phantom glare of fullness.
— zumwalt (2011, revised 2026)
Admin’s Note: This is the fourth piece in Zumwalt’s ten-poem tribute to poet Siegfried Sassoon, The Sassoon Collection, originally written in 2011, recently revised. “Butter and eggs” is loosely based on Sassoon’s “Butterflies.” Zumwalt mirrors the original structure, but alters the tone and content considerably.
As always, we appreciate your sharing your thoughts in the comments, not only about the poem but also about the danger of AI — is it just a matter of time before AI determines that we are just an annoyance to be disposed of?
Weighing in at 140 pounds and dwindling, barely five-foot-something, known for their work ethic, is 92% of the American population, some angry, some brainwashed, some apathetic, some simply perplexed: Let’s hear it for the Plebs!!!
Weighing in at — excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, I’ve just been informed that weight is not public information — weighing in at undisclosed, holding 80% of wealth in the stock market, ever increasing in size and influence, are America’s billionaires, hungry for any additional victory they can achieve: Let’s hear it for the Modern Monarchs!
The bell rings!
Before a single Pleb can protest, the Modern Monarchs surgically start to remove sensible regulations protecting the Plebs. The jab lands clean before the Plebs can parry.
The Monarchs taunt, and rapidly shift to Public Policy Tilting, cutting funds for infrastructure, environmental protection, healthcare and education, world health and food programs, dissolving USAID.
What a show from the Monarchs: They duck, pivot, bob and wave with their effective cross-arm defense and their backsteps against fair taxation, leaving the confused Plebs bewildered, exhausted, holding the proverbial bag, sinking to the canvas from its weight.
The Plebs are tough and get to their feet!
The Plebs square off again with the start of a one-two combination, but the Monarchs slip and roll defending with legal leverage, using lawfare to swamp the Plebs, brandishing immunity regulations, delaying accountability, countering and elbow blocking the IRS from pursuing audits, withholding money rightfully owed to the Plebs!
The Plebs are stunned, groggy, wobbling, staggering, but hanging in there dishing out a $5 million penalty for fraud!
The Monarchs pull and counter with identical twins turning that 2022 lawsuit from the Commodity Futures Trading Commission into an apology, and a stunning reversal in favor of this Trump 2024 Campaign donor twosome!
The Monarchs are dominating this contest. Let’s be honest, folks: the Plebs have no chance!
The Monarchs, trained by the most expensive personal trainers, are 4000 times more likely to hold political office than the Plebs, and have the means to influence what they don’t hold, putting these Plebs at an insurmountable disadvantage!
The Monarchs trade in favors: a bill for a check, another seat in their pocket.
The bell rings to end round one.
The Plebs glance at their corner, but there is no stool, no medical attention, all of their allocated funds invested in gold stools for the Modern Monarchs.
The bell for round two rings.
The Plebs valiantly face the Monarchs again!
The Monarchs cuff, clip, smash, throwing haymakers at will!!!
How can the Plebs remain standing?
The Monarchs brazenly pound contributions at Congressmen, Senators, at local representatives: for every cent landed dollars are reaped!
The Plebs attempt to counter with a $47 donation. The swing is wild, but they keep swinging: Monarchs laughing off the few weak punches that land.
The Plebs remind the Monarchs that the Plebs paid for the arena, for the seats, for the ring!
The Monarchs remind the Plebs who paid for the referee!!!
The Plebs continue to sway, left to right, right to left, with no apparent sense of direction.
The ref takes a well-deserved nap.
The Monarchs brandish weapons: inflating slabs of beef, gas pump handles, coffee cans, medical bills, overdue rent, credit reports.
Pugilistically, the Plebs are in a deep deficit, unable to fight back the endless inflation.
The Monarchs land another uppercut and another! An endless flurry of complaints rains down on the Plebs’ credit profiles!
The Plebs are buckling at the knees but still keep to their feet!
A brutal combination from the Monarchs! Stop-work orders straight to the jaw! Supervisory exams — closed! Twenty-two pending actions against the banks — dropped! And a solar plexus punch to finish the round: fifteen hundred regulators dismissed in a single afternoon!
Ladies and Gentlemen, this is absolutely astonishing: The Plebs have lost billions and billions since the match has begun— and yet— are miraculously holding on!
Folks, it’s clear: the Monarchs look to end this match— but— the Plebs refuse to go down for the count.
On cue, the referee comes between the Plebs and the Monarchs, halts the match, holds up two fingers in front of the Plebs— and lands a three-punch combo, followed by a kidney punch, sending the Plebs to the floor!
The count begins.
Half the arena, Plebs themselves, join the count, cheering wildly!
The crowd certainly looks pleased! Their pockets may be empty but this once-in-a-lifetime entertainment allowed them to root for a real winner!
