Tomorrow's Timericks: Biden set for G-7 boost in bid for all nations to impose minimum global corporate tax

 

all the world loves taxes/loves to pay 'em through the nose/global corporations/love to work those ratios/but after you have taxed 'em/you will find Swiss bank accounts/for corporations growing/in amazing large amounts.

The summer streets are running red/the violence leads to mass dread/the heat waves always melt restraint/so gangs touch up their old war paint/the latest horde of thugs suggest/we ought to hide in our ice chest.

The price of meat is elevated/leaving wallets much truncated/a piece of liver costs the same/as losing at a poker game/even pork and beans are priced/like it was a diamond heist/like that king of Babylon/we'll soon be forced to eat our lawn!  

Today's Timericks: Dogs sniff out Covid-19 carriers in Thailand and other countries. (NYT)

 

A Labrador knows if you're sick/their able noses do the trick/so when you travel, without fail/see if the Lab does wag its tail/cuz if it does you're Covid blighted/and off the plane you'll be invited.

Chinese demographics aging/are most other news upstaging/no one's growing up to be/ready as an employee/everyone is old and gray/on a pension, wits astray/Chinese babies, please come quick/and don't you be a Bolshevik!   

The gumboot chiton has hard dentures/as across the sea it ventures/scraping algae off of stones/cleaning up for Davey Jones/It is full of iron bits/They don't serve it at the Ritz.

Prose Poem: My Ghost Tree.

 

I was raking up ghosts

from under my ghost tree;

they fell throughout the 

year, not just in autumn.

After filling several black

plastic bags full of inert ghosts

I threw them in the pickup to

take to the landfill.

Just my luck,

the landfill was closed for 

Memorial Day.

So I dropped them off with

Andy, the caretaker

at the local cemetery;

he grinds them up  

 for mulch.

Back home I sat under

the insubstantial shade of my ghost tree,

drinking cold buttermilk.

I began remembering my dad,

who liked cold buttermilk

and shot off the little toe

on his right foot so he 

wouldn't be drafted,

when another ghost fell off

the ghost tree at my feet.

But this one was a lively little cuss.

It sprang up and danced about,

flinging its shroud around like

a hula-hoop.

"What makes you so lively, little ghost?"

I asked it.

"Oh, I been taking ghost vitamins" it replied,

doing a somersault. 

"What're those?" I asked.

"Made from tombstone dust, bat wings,

and cypress bark" it told me, looking up at

me with a wistful smile -- as if

it might like to try to be alive again.

"Seems a shame to take you to Andy

to be ground up for mulch" I said to it 

kindly.

"Must you?" it asked meekly.

"Can't have you ghosts cluttering up

my yard, now, can I? The neighbors 

would complain" I said, avoiding its 

black hollow eyes.

Suddenly the lively little ghost

floated quickly up into the sky.

"I didn't know I could do that" 

I heard it say as it drifted out of sight.

I decided to grill a steak for

dinner that night.

Tomorrow's Timericks: Fermented incentive? Minnesota rolls out free beer to cheer the vaccinated. (MPR)

 

Vaccination papers mean a schooner of free beer/for those Minnesotans who enjoy some liquid cheer/Pity the teetotaler, who doesn't get a thing/for being vaccinated, other than a sober sting.

I've entered a new country/and the customs are so strange/I see I'll have to find a way/my thoughts to rearrange/arriving at senescence/ain't what I set out to do/but now I'm stuck in this locale/my passport won't renew.

the governor of Utah says "no masks around this place"/"mandates for their wearing are a criminal disgrace"/no matter that the doctors think we ought to take it slow/the governor of Utah has got mental lumbago.

Americans are buying guns/like they were sweet hot cross buns/Pandemic fears give to munitions/gigantic and deep sales commissions/so on the bandwagon go leap/and be another shooting sheep.

He has led captivity captive/and ascended to his throne/No longer are we bondsmen/to a master unbeknown/Christ proclaims our freedom/with veracity supreme/The hardened world around us/grows as muted as a dream.

Please Help Feed Hungry Seniors.

 

Hello. 

My name is Tim Torkildson.

Many of you know me through my humorous verses that have appeared in the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, and the Washington Post.

I worked most of my adult life as a professional circus clown, before being forced to retire due to arthritis.

For the past six years I have lived in a senior citizen subsidized housing apartment called Valley Villa, in Provo Utah.

I am very grateful to have this pleasant place to live on my very modest income.

But I'm sad to say that many of the residents here are not getting the proper nutrition they need. So often I hear about, or see, residents my age and older who try to get along on a single can of soup and a few slices of stale bread each day. That isn't right.

So I've taken it upon myself to do some home-cookin' for free for anyone hungry at Valley Villa. I make big pans of mac & cheese (not from a box!) I do a lot of spaghetti with meat sauce and green salads.  My slow cooker cabbage soup is in great demand. I make my own cornbread from scratch. And I am a wiz at putting together a healthy, nourishing casserole from whatever I can find in my pantry and a few fresh veggies from the local supermarket.

After all, my wife and I had 8 kids -- so I know something about cooking for a crowd!

I'm telling you all this because it takes money to buy even basic groceries today, as I'm sure you know.  

I'm not asking you to send me anything or donate anything; I ask you to simply read this blog at least once a week. It's painless, takes about five minutes, and you might get a laugh.

As I gain viewers I am paid a little something for them from Google. Not much, but a few bucks extra means I can put some hamburger in my next potato casserole.

You get the picture.

Thanks for your help!

Today's Timericks: House Hunters Are Leaving the City, and Builders Can’t Keep Up. (NYT)

 

Let us build a cottage sweet/where they plant the sugar beet/out in country so remote/your nearest neighbor is a goat/once the internet's installed/stay home where it's safe and walled/as a hermit you'll do fine/living all your life online.

Sydney has a million mice/and that number's imprecise/many more are likely there/chewing on upholstered chair/they are eating all the crops/just like they were lollipops/Sydney needs a lot of cats/but all they have is bureaucrats.

I believe that God takes care/to record our ev'ry prayer/no request or word of praise/is to Him an idle phrase/all our doubts and shocks and tears/will be resolved in coming years/He's intimate with all our stress/Have faith in Him for true success!

小丑

Tomorrow's Timericks: Fox News Intensifies Its Pro-Trump Politics as Dissenters Depart

 

If you're working for Fox News/you had better share their views/dissing Trump will cook your goose/you'll be booted from Fox Noose/play it safe and park your scruples/at the door with purple mooples.  

skipping stones upon a lake/will a fellow happy make/picking dandelion flowers/makes for many pleasant hours/feeding pigeons in the park/gives to life a certain spark/such unimportant occupations/lessen all our aggravations.  

if you want prosperity/fiddle with the Bible, see/Stick in something incidental/your wealth will not be accidental/just make sure the copyright/won't your backside come and bite.

Today's Timericks: GOP senators block Jan. 6 Commission, likely ending bid for independent probe of Capitol riot (WaPo)

 

Another hack from Russia/how many does that make?/I'm losing count quite often/It gives me a headache/a cyber war is raging/so where are all our troops?/The Biden folk may talk big/but all they say is "oops!"

the taste of summer, where I'm from/was always just plain bubblegum/My folks did not go in for frills/we'd get a cramp or other ills/and so a nickel I would blow/on nothing but Bazooka Joe.

Republicans refuse to see/riots as real history/the ruckus in D.C. took place/in comic books or outer space/and so they never will concede/to scrutinize such chicken feed.

WASHINGTON — President Biden’s $6 trillion budget bets on the power of government to propel workers, families and businesses to new heights of prosperity in a rapidly changing economy, by redistributing income and wealth from high earners and corporations to grow the middle class.  NYT.

Uncle Sam is handing out/money with his mighty clout/taxing high and mighty so/the bourgeoisie can grow and grow/Is it wise or so humane/to set up such a gravy train?

Today's Timericks: ExxonMobil rebel shareholders win board seats (WaPo)

 

Alexander, called the Great/conquered lots of real estate/till his soldiers did rebel/telling him to go to hell/they did yearn for the Aegean/never more to go sight-seein'/so they quick marched back to find/their wives had all turned nonaligned.  

In my foolish middle age/I yearned for fame with steady rage/for interviews and viral force/and money to prevent divorce/But now I'm old and fat and shrewd/I only wish my prunes be stewed.  

stockholders at exxon-mobe/made the old guard all disrobe/then they put in leaders who/did not have a bugaboo/about greening back the land/tho dividends just might get canned.

shyster lawyers on the scent/of the boobs who circumvent/vaccinations cuz they lack/the common sense of carpet tack/now are suing right and left/what they're doing I call theft/when will vaccines be conceived/that make people undeceived?  

Prose Poem: A poke in the eye with a sharp stick.

 

As I walked home from the Rec Center

I passed the mailman on the uneven

cement sidewalk;

The cement slabs frozen

in storm-tossed frenzy. 

He smiled at me and nodded.

"Gee, the mail is going out early today"

I said happily to myself.

And suddenly, 

without any external compulsion

or evident reason,

I became a happy man.

Happiness welled up inside of me

like a Texas gusher --

lifting me up into the clear

blue sky, soaked clean through

with a thorough delight in my 

surroundings.

Twin cottonwoods stood

sentinel at the next street corner;

the grass lay grizzled around them

with thick fuzz.

This, too, seemed right and good --

just the way things ought to be

on a fine day in late spring,

with brown summer haze hovering just

beyond the mountains.

"This sure beats being 

poked in the eye

with a sharp stick" 

I told a robin looking for

worms under a lilac bush.

He cocked his head

and stood his ground.

I was grateful for his

trust in me.

When I got home I mailed

a check to UNICEF.

Then I threw out 

all my medications

and went out on the patio

to count the colors in

the driveway gravel.

Prose Poem: We Never Know.

 

My neighbor Tom got very rich

selling a non-fungible token.

He bought me a string of sandalwood

meditation beads,

and then moved to Flathead Lake

in Montana,

where he built a huge log cabin.

He let me buy his old place for a song,

and I was happy to get it;

my house needed a new roof and

all the downstairs windows replaced.

Tom's place was in very good repair,

and nearly a third larger.

When I  moved in I found a trapdoor

down in the basement laundry room.

It was sealed shut, so I put a rug over

it and forgot about it.

Years later, after I had moved 

into one of the first terrariums

designed for humans on the Moon,

the new owners managed to pry open

the trapdoor to discover a complete set

of Maryknoll magazines from 1933 to

1969. In mint condition.

They weren't worth anything,

really.

But it just goes to show

that we never know,

do we?

Today's Timericks: Texas Lawmakers Move to Drop Most Handgun Licensing Requirements (NYT)

 

I read where money's pouring down/upon the Feds in DC Town/the taxes paid this year surpass/the growth of even pampas grass/I hope another stimmie check/is in the works for this redneck/cuz I done spent my last few cents/buyin' food and payin' rents.

In Myanmar good poetry (unlike this wretched piece of mine)/is powered by a moral force and savored like the finest wine/And so the autocrats agreed to put their poets all away/to keep Rangoon a wasteland where liberty can never stay.

everybody's got a pet/so they need to use a vet/they, in turn, have boosted fees/now they're banking overseas/don't invest in higher techs/horse doctors get bigger checks. 

Alexander, called the Great/conquered lots of real estate/till his soldiers did rebel/telling him to go to hell/they did yearn for the Aegean/never more to go sight-seein'/so they quick marched back to find/their wives had all turned nonaligned.  

Texas Greg is packin' heat/all common sense he sure has beat/Any Texan worth his salt/can buy a handgun with no-fault/the Governor is proud to guide/his people to more homicide.

In my foolish middle age/I yearned for fame with steady rage/for interviews and viral force/and money to prevent divorce/But now I'm old and fat and shrewd/I only wish my prunes be stewed.  

Prose Poem: Written on Jam.

 

Remember in all those old movies,

how the plot always blew up after

a newspaper headline appeared?

Announcing a birth

a death

a fortune won

a fortune lost

the start of a war

a new hero

or old villain found out?

Boy, that's what I always wanted --

a huge black headline with

my picture underneath

proclaiming me the Eighth 

Wonder of the World.

People would run down the hallway

waving the newspaper headline

like they were signaling a zeppelin.

My friends and family,

especially that snooty cousin

of mine,

would gape until their jaws

hit the floor.

Meanwhile

I would modestly disclaim

any special virtue or talent,

 telling reporters I was just an

average American boy with

an average American sweetheart

and an average American mutt

named Pomeroy.

Well

I finally got my name 

in big black headline letters

last week

after I saved a baby

from the talons of a hulking

Philippine monkey-eating 

eagle.

Single-handed.

Every newspaper in the country

ran the story, with my photograph.

And nobody, but nobody,

ran into the room waving

the paper above their head --

or glanced at my headline and

swooned in a dead faint --

or even had the decency to 

yell "Jumping Jehoshaphat!" 

in my face.

The whole thing might just

as well have been written

on jam.

And get this --

my snooty cousin just

went viral with an NFT

of him wearing a crown

of dandelions. 

Today's Timericks: Their Own Private Idaho: Five Oregon Counties Back a Plan to Secede (NYT)

 

five counties out in oregon think that they ought to split/and stick themselves in idaho, where there is holy writ/I hope they like potatoes and the horse and buggy age/and trains that only ever run on very narrow gauge.

do not kill the kangaroo/tho tasty in an aussie stew/be kind to hopping critters, since/you can always eat a quince/then feel humane and kindly too/oh, do not kill the kangaroo!

there's this guy named sabatini/who must have had a large martini/when he said that socrates/would be canceled like bad cheese/sabatini's point seems dim/since ancient athens poisoned him.

We're running out of babies/or so the experts say/women do not want them/and men are turning gay/but oldsters grow like mushrooms/they live so long that we/are entering an era/of post-senility.

Nowadays some gummy bears are laced with THC/and skittles get you higher than a tall sequoia tree/no telling where they'll put it next; perhaps in chicken soup/I wouldn't be surprised if hagen-daz/puts out a scoop.  

Russians think that melting ice/is as bad as loaded dice/without polar ice to keep/enemies at bay, they'll creep/right around the old north pole/putting ruskies in a hole/but by then, with water rised/we'll all be fully bapatized.  

Prose Poem: The Little Games.

 

Death came for me 

bearing a bag

of Krispy Kreme Donuts.

"That's thoughtful of you"

I told him.

He wore dirty white sneakers,

which took away from

the solemnity of the

whole thing.

"Do I get to play a game

or something first with you

in order to keep my soul?"

I asked him.

Silently he produced

a checkerboard.

I beat him in a dozen moves.

"Another game, perhaps?" 

I asked him politely.

He handed me a deck

of Uno cards.

His mistake:

I played Uno with my

family every Monday

night for nearly twenty years.

The cards kept slipping

through his bony fingers,

slowing him up considerably.

We had finished the donuts

and I was thirsty.

He ate most of them,

by the way.

"How about a drink of milk

before the next game?"

I asked.

He gave me a tepid glass

of buttermilk.

That's when I discovered

 Death is a sore loser.

Today's Timericks: Featuring Onions!

 

Why does mankind want a king/or emperor or anything/to tell him what to do and say/and where to live and what to pay/Since ancient pharaohs, and before/even in the Trojan War/royalty means avarice/I'd rather live just like the Swiss. 

Storming the Bastille is not/what the DC mob had thought/Paris rose impulsively/but DC was planned carefully/With the two events compared/the cops both times were unprepared. 

I eat onions for dessert/because I am an introvert/My breath means interlopers find/my presence kills their peace of mind/Even tho it may seem kinky/I chew scallions with my Twinkie.  

Jakarta doesn't have clean air/in fact it smells like underwear/Particulates do run so thick/they'd even make a hantu sick/So tourists, take a word from me/and detour straight to pure Bali. 

Australia's keeping borders closed/They do not want to be exposed/to viruses and other drek/so they have made a bottleneck/You can't get in for years to come/unless you bring them chewing gum.

 So China now on Mars has landed/and the planet they have branded/so they'll start to set up shop/and ev'ry Mons will have a cop.

Companies cannot get workers/seems to be too many shirkers/so they automate instead/the shiftless can just stay in bed/so if you want to work today/with robots you should learn to play.

Today's Timericks: Featuring Krill!

 

Antarctica has got the krill/that give the southern whales a thrill/Other creatures also dine/on this fast food thing in brine/But now the algae that krill eat/are growing rare as earthworm feet/It's all because man ruins the land/and makes the place an ice cream stand!

Ten Commandments has mankind/which they rarely bear in mind/as they go about their span/thinking they are Peter Pan/Someday Father will return/and we'll either smile or burn . . . 

I like cooking for my friends/but the pleasure always ends/with the dishes in the sink/where they stay until they stink/No one offers help to me/to make my platters gravy-free/So now I open up a can/or put an egg in frying pay. 

UFOs up in the sky/common as the old housefly/so say pilots nowadays/taboos ready to all raze/no one thinks you're crazy when/you espy some small green men/buzzing 'round the aerodrome/wanting just a quick phone home.  

Today's Timericks: What if Space Junk and Climate Change Become the Same Problem? (NYT)

 

space is full of junk, you know/tho it's going awful slow/astronauts into it crash/giving NASA quite a pash/global warming makes debris/up in space quite fancy free/even good old Santa Claus/now avoids the tropopause!  

peacocks on the lawn, I swan/strutting there from dusk to dawn/think I'll write a book that shows/they do not breathe through their nose/and some other crazy fluff/readers love such offbeat stuff!

I'm a senior, got that straight?/Cryptocurrency I hate/People buying that fool stuff/are lemmings running off a bluff/If investments you desire/do like me: buy chicken wire!

The widow and the unjust judge/is known by one and all/how that poor woman importuned/a soul like a brick wall/Finally he favored her/because she was a scold/which only goes to show that/nagging often gets the gold!

The walrus has a funny face/it looks to be from outer space/it flops about like gummy squid/it cannot dance -- it never did/global warming is destroying/ice packs -- which is so annoying/to walruses of ev'ry stripe/that they may fly away like snipe.

Prose Poem: The Long Shirt Society.

 

So Chico asks me if I want to come to their meeting.

"There's a dinner afterwards" he told me.

"What meeting?" I asked him.

"The Long Shirt Society" he said.

"Never heard of it" I replied. "Sounds dull."

"Well, yes" Chico admitted. "We mostly meet

for the good food afterwards. The secretary is

a fabulous cook; you should taste her braised ribs!"

"Is this a membership drive?" I asked suspiciously.

"Well, yes" admitted Chico. "We need more dues-paying

members so we can afford to buy

a DeLonghi espresso machine."

"No thanks" I said firmly. "I'm not a joiner.

How about a ride home?"

We drove in silence for a while.

"Here you are" Chico said, pulling

up to my house. "That'll be one-hundred

and seventy-five dollars."

"What are you talking about?" I nearly screamed at him.

"You never said anything about money when

I asked you for a ride home!"

"Mister" said Chico, "I drive a taxi cab.

I picked you up three hours ago at 

the airport."

"I thought you were my friend, 

a good friend" I said bitterly, as I 

got out my wallet.

"Well, I did invite you to a meeting 

and dinner, Mister" he said quietly

as he ran my card.

"Well, I guess it's okay" I said,

trying out a half smile on him.

"Would you like to come in for some

Postum and a quick video before you head back

into town? The gridlock is terrible this time of

day."

"What video is that, Mister?" he asked, 

squinting at me.

"Meet the Mormons" I said cheerfully.

 

Today's Timericks.

 

Reporters cannot make up facts/They hire good internet hacks/the 'truth' to display/so they earn their pay/with non-fiction that's pretty lax.

Wild horses once under the care/of Uncle Sam need to beware/The market for meat/makes folks indiscreet/They'll wind up on menus, cooked rare.

Investing in good ransomware/can make a guy a billionaire/It can't be stopped; it's spreading fast/potential for it, unsurpassed/Like the Mafia of old/just join a gang to get your gold!

Photo Essay: Postcards Mailed to my President.

 

Prose Poem: The Gift.

 

Nymphets sporting at a mountain stream.

"I'm getting a gift today"

I told the nurse from my

hospital bed.

"How nice" she responded.

"What is it?"

"Oh" I replied, "it's a surprise.

"I won't know until I get it."

She said "How nice" again

and then gave me an

enema.

Actually, I wasn't expecting anything

from anybody during my hospital stay.

I wasn't dying, so nobody but my

brother Casey had come to visit.

He brought me a sports magazine --

he knows very well I loathe sports.

I told him, too crossly, to come back

with something worthwhile to read,

and he left suddenly, silently,

and sullenly. 

I didn't expect him back.

I don't know why I told the nurse

I was getting a gift -- it just

popped out spontaneously,

like a bit of chewed food flung

from my mouth during an animated

dinner conversation.

I do it all the time --

once I told a friend that I was

being published in the New Yorker.

He was duly impressed,

so I had to drop him completely

to keep from ever answering his 

embarrassing questions about when it would

be published.

In grade school I told all

my teachers that I was extremely

allergic to jute twine --

so I was excused from the annual

paper drive, and any time

I caught sight of a piece of twine

at school I began to sneeze like

crazy.

But that same day Casey

surprised me by coming back with

a book for me.

"Well, thanks!" I told him.

"S'all right -- hope it's deep enough

for you" he said, then patted me on

the shoulder and left.

It was a copy of Lolita.

The nurse saw it when she came in.

"Dirty old man" I could hear her thinking.

My oncologist saw it that evening on his

rounds.

"Read that in college" he told me.

"It wasn't as dirty as everyone said."

When he left I threw the book into

the wastebasket.  

And read the damn sports magazine.

Photo Essay: Spring Haiku.

 

Spring is aching green --

the color of summer still

remains to be seen.

There is purple here --

strangest of colors by far

and never fearful.

Brown is part of spring --

the illegitimate child

of waiting too long.

Today's Timericks.

 

First there was the Cold War/now it's Cyber Clash instead/If we don't take stern measures/then our infrastructure's dead/We do not know the hackers/and their bosses stay obscure/They haven't got the guts/ for open conflict, that's for sure!

Oat milk, almond cream, and such/do not move me very much/They ain't dairy, which I love/I won't switch despite the shove/And there's proof their benefits/don't amount to musty grits/Give me moo juice ev'ry time/cuz milk from hemp is just a crime!

The Census shows our birthrate has declined in recent years/this has given rise to speculation and sharp fears/that the country's shrinking and our vistas have a ceiling/We no longer can be thought of as a folk freewheeling/I refuse to bellyache about a future bleak/America is still the place that hopeful people seek.

Prose Poem: A Touch of Prinkweed.

 

This Mother's Day

give your mother 

a touch of prinkweed.

Yes, this common 

garden variety plant

can do a lot to please

the most demanding mommy.

Drop some in her tea --

she will break into song.

Sprinkle it down the back

of her neck --

she will begin to dance like

Vilma Ebsen.

Stuff her pillow with it --

her dreams will be sweeter

than gulaab jamun.

Present her with the seeds

to plant around her cottage --

the vigorous prinkweed will

lift her little home like Baba Yaga's

chicken legs, turning it ever 

counter-clockwise.

Last, but not least,

add some to her skin cream

and watch as she happily

transforms into an Old World babbler and

flies away to the Grampian Hills.

Prinkweed is available wherever

fine botanicals are sold.

**************************

Prose Poem: The Dust Storm

 

I like to read the newspaper at breakfast.

In fact, I dreamed of doing just that for many

years while I was a working stiff --

Retired and sitting

 down to buttered toast and marmalade,

with bacon and eggs, and a cup of peppermint tea,

 then snapping open the paper to continue my

pleasant struggle of becoming an informed citizen.

No rush -- I could spend all morning reviewing my horoscope

and doing the crossword.

So as soon as I retired I subscribed to the

Saint Paul Pioneer Press.

Then one morning there was this headline:

"GIANT DESTRUCTIVE DUST STORM HEADING OUR WAY!"

The reporter wrote that due to global warming

a huge dust storm from the shores of Africa would

hit our town by tomorrow; the potential for disaster

was enormous.

Gridlock. Power outages. Tire stores closed.

Famine.

Refusing to be stampeded into a panic,

I searched online for confirmation of this

unsettling story. I found none.

I turned on the radio, put the TV on CNN --

nothing.

The story in the Pioneer Press had a phone

number for the reporter who wrote the dust

storm story -- so I called her.

"Hello" said a voice. "This is Tiffany Chino."

"This is me" I replied, working up a fine

head of steam. "What's the big idea of making

up that dust storm thing? You're going to scare

 people into their graves!"

"You don't believe the story?" she asked quietly.

"No I don't! Besides, there's no other news media

carrying the story -- so I'm calling your bluff, you

phony!" 

I heard her sniffle. Then begin to weep.

"Oh, now . . . " I told her consolingly, "maybe I

was a little harsh. Anyone can make a mistake."

"Thank you" she said. I heard her blowing her nose.

"That was my very first story -- I'm just a cub reporter.

I wanted to impress my editor, so I made the whole thing

up."

"That's understandable" I said, suddenly liking this girl

very much. "You sound like you need a good breakfast. Why

don't you come over to my place tomorrow morning for some 

ham and eggs. I have a wonderful view of Phalen Park

from my condo."

The next morning she was at my door bright and early.

She brought a photographer with her, and didn't

stay long. Didn't even take a bite of toast.

And wouldn't you know it --

the next morning the newspaper ran

this huge headline, with my picture beneath it --

"ELDERLY MAN INVITES YOUNG

GIRLS INTO HIS APARTMENT, ALLEGEDLY TO

MURDER THEM WITH CHOLESTEROL!"

At least they said 'allegedly' . . . 

******************

From a teacher at BYU comes this email compliment about the above piece:  Thank you! Very entertaining. Drama, humor, social commentary--wonderfully combined and engagingly presented.

Prose Poem: There is nothing left to write.

 

When I went into the Writing Bureau

for my weekly assignment,

the clerk behind the counter said:

"Sorry, there's nothing left to write."

"What does THAT mean?" I asked him.

"Nothing left to write? That's nonsense!"

I felt something unpleasant closing in on me.

He adjusted his arm garters and pulled down

his green plastic eyeshade before he answered me:

"Just like I said: There. Is. Nothing. Left. 

To. Write. Period. Everything has been written

about exhaustively, to the point of nausea.

He shuttered his counter right in my

face.

"So I'm superfluous" I whispered to myself.

As I shuffled out of the Writing Bureau 

I bumped into my old friend Sally Applebaum.

She wrote exquisite recipes for fruit compotes,

using the metric system.

Now she was superfluous, too.

I took her to a nearby stationary store,

where we commiserated with each other

while trying out fountain pens and drinking

distilled water on the rocks.

"Sally" I said to her, "why don't we get married?"

So we went down to City Hall to get a 

Marriage License.

The clerk behind the counter told us:

"Sorry, there are no more marriages . . . "

I stopped her right there.

"I know" I said, "everybody is already

married, right?"

"Wrong, wise guy" she told me,

tweaking her jabot,

"There are no more marriages . . . on earth.

You have to go Mars to get hitched."

"Has this been written about?" asked

Sally hopefully, "because I haven't read anything

about it."

"Search me" said the clerk with a shrug.

"I belong to the Illiteracy Brigade."

"I haven't read about any Illiteracy Brigade either" I

told Sally excitedly.

"So there are still things to write about!" she

yelled at me joyfully.

In our mad enthusiasm we literally skipped

down the steps of City Hall,

where we saw a police officer put

a pterodactyl in a choke hold. 

"That's been written about" I told Sally glumly.

"Way too much" she agreed.

Prose Poem: The Lady on the Staircase.

 

The Lady on the Staircase told me:

"I love only Liz Cheney."

"Can't you find it in your heart to love

me just a teeny-weeny bit?" I pleaded.

"No" she said sternly. "Unless you can perform

three impossible tasks for me."

"Name them" I whispered fervently, "and

I will perform them!"

"First" she said, "go to Australia

and help them win the war against China."

Five years later I returned to the Lady

on the Staircase, missing an arm and

blinded in my right eye.

"We won at last!" I told her exultantly.

"The Chinese surrendered at Port Arthur 

this past week."

She deigned to smile at me.

"Next" she said, with a hint of a caress

in her voice, "light a match on a bar of soap."

I was stymied by that one, 

so I sought out the wisest man I knew --

Mitt Romney -- and asked his advice.

"Simple" he replied, ruffling my hair

with avuncular affection, "use a bar of 

Lava soap."

And so I lit a match on a bar of Lava soap

for the Lady on the Staircase.

"Well done" she beamed at me. "One last

challenge I must give to you."

I awaited her words with my heart soaked in sudor.

"Bring me" she said "a pregnant Egyptian mummy."

At that I shot up the staircase to gather the Lady on the 

Staircase into my arms.

"You are the only pregnant Egyptian mummy

in all the world" I murmured in her ear, "and I 

love you foolishly, madly, completely!"

She tapped me three times with her ankh --

and I became her mummified husband.

Prose Poem: Uncle Soapy.

 

I went to visit my Uncle Soapy out in the country,

but his caretaker told me he wasn't there.

"He's gone off with some British Nonconformists

on a bicycle tour of the Great Lakes" he told me.

I was very disappointed, and put out -- because now

I had no place to stay and there wasn't a train back

until the next day.

The caretaker sensed my predicament somehow.

"Would you like to come in for a cup of Bovril and

then perhaps we can find you a cot to sleep on in

my cottage?" he offered kindly.

I accepted gratefully, and soon we were in his

book-lined study. 

We talked late into the night, about books and authors

and Godel's Incompleteness Theorem. 

As we finished the last of the strumpets and

Gentleman's Relish the caretaker told me he

was writing a book himself.

"Really?" I replied. "What kind of book?"

"A biography" he said, with a shy smile.

"Anybody I know" I replied waggishly.

"Actually" he said, "it's about you."

I goggled at the man.

"Me?"

He nodded pleasantly as he filled his meerschaum

with Turkish Taffy.

"But . . . but" I spluttered, "you don't know me at all!"

"Ah" he replied, "that's what makes it so easy to write -- I

can make up everything as I go along. Your Uncle is

quite taken with the manuscript so far -- and has promised

to see that it gets published next spring."

I demanded to see this manuscript at once. 

"You've just cribbed the story of John Paul Jones and didn't even bother to change the name!" I told him sharply after I had finished reading.

For answer, the caretaker opened the curtains -- the sun was already up, and if I wanted to catch my train back to town I'd have to hurry along. 

As I rushed out the door I paused to tell the caretaker that he was a scoundrel and that I would inform my Uncle about his effrontery.

"Do that" he said as he closed the door in my face, "my biography will indicate that you were illegitimate, and so your dear uncle will not leave you a dime in his will."

At the train station I asked the telegraph clerk if the city-bound train would be on time.

"Come and gone already" he replied shortly.

"But your schedule clearly states it would not leave Templeton

until 9:45" I said to the clerk crossly.

"This ain't Templeton, it's Finlay Corners" he told me.

I glanced up at the station sign. It said Finlay Corners.

Then I remembered that 'Uncle Soapy' was the name of an old

circus clown I used to know -- and not my uncle at all.

So I laughed the whole thing off and 

went white water rafting. 

**********************

This poem was reviewed by a friend, who simply emailed:  "Interesting, and full of words I don't know and won't bother looking up because I'll forget them 5 minutes later."