Prose Poem: Eat like a monkey.

 

One morning as a child

at the breakfast table

my dad told me:

"You eat like a monkey."

That's why, telescoping back in

on myself,

I am so immersed in food.

What else does a monkey have to do

 all day up in a tree?

I ate a gobbet of beef today.

Peruvian beef swimming in 

cilantro sauce.

With rice and beans.

In a dull dark dream place.

It was not really a place to eat,

but a place to dream.

I don't know how they stay in business.

In the six years I've lived in this neighborhood

I've never seen that place crowded.

They must spin straw into gold.

Or fix parking tickets. 

In my food dream I was 

sailing a gravy boat, full of

brown gravy of silken texture.

We ran aground and the tanker leaked

gravy all over things like ice cream

and radishes. 

The environmentalists were up in arms,

so I slipped them some fried yucca 

for hush money.

Then drank my Inca Cola,

which tastes like bubble gum.

I wasn't chewing on food;

I was chewing on dreams.

And when I woke up I had

finished my plate, 

all except one piece of fried yucca.

That stuff sticks in my craw

like the Ever Given.

I left the waitress a one dollar tip.

And Amy's H & R Block business card.

Now that she's moving to Omaha.

To live with the monkeys.

Today's Timericks.

 

If you are a dissident/and the rules you've slightly bent/lawmakers and GOP/dump you in the hole quickly/America is like Hong Kong/and that, my friends, is very wrong.

Old King Coal is a merry old soul/as difficult as arms control/We want him gone, but here he comes/beating on those carbon drums/There's too much money still at stake/so Mother Earth keeps this headache/But someday she may rise in wrath/and act more like a psychopath.

Putin likes to boast and brag/how he'll surely shoot and scrag/any country fool enough/to give Russia any guff/He's got guns and big tanks, too/and he'll gladly mess witch you/on the street or in the hood/(though mostly his strength is plywood.)

 

Prose Poem: Drunken Noodles.

 

I have fed too many people for free.

I'm was tired; burned out; grown weary of 

the perfunctory 'thanks' and lack

of eye contact.

So I'll quit doing public service meals

and start to lunch out.

I went to a Thai place to have drunken noodles.

There's no alcohol in them, but they wobble

on your fork.

Thai restaurants are famous for their slow

service. But the slower the service, the

better the food.

So it didn't bug me too much when it took

a half hour for my noodles to arrive.

But then I couldn't block out the conversations at 

the other tables while I ate.

People much younger than me, in white shirts and

blouses, with tattoos on their arms,

were talking about IPO's and

turnover rates --

not about the beautiful spring

day outside or how good the food 

tasted.

And it came to me again; that I'm not

part of the modern human race anymore.

I am a relic.

 I looked in the mirror

in the Men's Room and saw a pudgy old

geezer in a wide brimmed straw hat with

his pants held up by suspenders --

who yearns to talk about his collection 

of Archie comics when he was a kid

and the awfulness of his mother's 

tuna casserole on Friday nights.

Tomorrow I'll make the old ladies

vegetable turkey soup in my slow cooker.

At least they don't have any tattoos.  

Prose Poem: Bailey's Beads.

 

"The persistence of memory"

said Crazy Henry,

"is both a blessing and a curse,

according to Proust."

"What's that?" I asked, astonished.

Crazy Henry barely made it through

high school -- where did he get off

quoting Proust at me?

"If we try to push the past away,

it simply becomes stronger" he

continued.

"Huh?" I said.

"Forgetting the past is a false construct"

he said, not at all smugly but very simply.

"Our past is as much a part of us

as our arms and legs" he finished.

"You thought all that up?" I asked derisively.

"Voltaire" he replied.

"Oh" I said. Then we went silent.

We were on a beautiful beach near 

Honolulu, sipping raspados.

A seagull flew over us, screaming

in false agony.

The waves smelled of Tide laundry detergent.

I was suddenly very happy

that the Order of the Solar Temple

had sent us to Hawaii to observe the solstice

eclipse. 

After a while I asked

Crazy Henry: 

"How do you know about people like

Proust and Voltaire?"

"Oh" he said, "we studied about 'em at

night school. I've got a degree now in 

belles-lettres."

"I never knew you went to night school" 

I said. "You never told me anything about it."

"Did it for the past five years -- every night after

work."

"But, but, I thought you were always at 

home in the evening watching TV -- like me."

"Oh, I did that for a while, but y'know it got awful

boring after a while -- so I signed up for some

night classes down at the community college. Now

when we get back home I'm gonna start teaching there,

part-time."

"But you could've asked me if I wanted to take classes

with you" I said, starting to choke.

There was a rusty pizza cutter slicing

through my heart right about then.

"Huh" he said, "I guess I could've.

"Wonder why I never thought of it?"

"We'd better hurry" I replied dully.

"Otherwise we'll miss Baily's Beads."

The sand turned to ashes beneath my feet. 

Today's Timericks.

 

A sleeping giant has awoke/and countries don't think it's a joke/Big tech platforms unrestrained/need big taxes to be chained/Supervision and repression/have become a real obsession/Facebook, Twitter, and the lot/are more than just an afterthought. 

Happiness is so intrusive/that it sometimes seems abusive/Showing joy in word and play/just is not the Finnish way/Though their country ranks up high/in happiness, the Finns ask why?/Statistics are for balladeers/cuz Finns say joy will end in tears.

Democracy in Hong Kong is as dead as dead can be/Beijing's pulling all the strings with no timidity/I wonder what the British think about their former ward/now that it is trampled by the local overlord? 

Today's Timericks.

 

Trial by riot seems the way/justice is dispensed today/If the verdict does not please/mobs take over like disease/If I were a judge right now/I would move to Curacao/throw away my nasty gavel/and enjoy some tropic travel.

Anyone can buy a gun/even madmen on the run/weapons of assault are cheap/causing sane folks' skin to creep/It's a buyer's market, friend/when the rules so easy bend.

Supreme Court justices agree/the media is quite pesky/Recent rulings seem to show/they'd like reporters to lay low/Journalists had best take care/and invest in lots of prayer.

If an author you would be/write about the GOP/praise them up and down to cause/spending like old Santa Claus/they will buy your book en masse/making it bestseller class/Who cares if your writing stinks?/you'll be out on green golf links!

No matter how you do the math/the rich will never take a bath/when it comes to paying taxes/their wealth don't wane/it always waxes/Be assured the upper crust/never will be going bust/The middle class must always pay/for how the wealthy like to play.

Prose Poem: Wash in warm soapy water.

 

I bought a new toaster the other day.

My old one, when I looked into

its crumby blackened slots,

looked like Lord Foul's Creche.

So I stopped by the supermarket

and got one for fourteen dollars.

When I opened the box and took

the thing out of its plastic bag

cocoon, I read the instructions.

Carefully.

They said, quite clearly, to wash

it in warm soapy water before using.

"That can't be right" I said to myself.

"You don't plunge an electric appliance

into water -- ever."

But there it was, in black and white.

So I called my old friend Crazy Henry

to see what he thought about it.

Two heads are better than one, right?

"Sure, you can put the whole thing

in warm soapy water" he assured me.

"Nowadays these electric doo-dads

are all waterproof anyway. It's a federal

regulation."

"You sure?" I asked him.

Crazy Henry used to own a pet monkey;

that kind of guy can't always be trusted.

"Trust me" he said. "I read about it in

the New York Times."

"Well, okay" I told him. "But if it blows up

or something -- I'm gonna have you buy me

a new toaster!"

So I washed my brand new toaster in

warm soapy water.

I let it dry, then plugged it in.

It blew up.

Sparks and smoke and gouts of flame.

I burned my hand. 

Furious, I dialed Crazy Henry.

"Guess what?" I shouted at him.

"The damn thing blew up and

nearly killed me!"

"It must have been a defective toaster" 

he said.

"The New York Times is never wrong --

they got fact checkers checking every story."

"Well" I yelled at my phone, "you

and the New York Times can go

straight to hell!"

I threw my phone on the couch. The putz.

I got out my first aid kit and read the

instructions on treating a first degree

burn.

It said to soak the affected skin in

warm soapy water.

So I did. I dipped my hand in

a tub of warm soapy water.

And it didn't feel any better at all.

Nearly weeping in frustration and pain

I smeared my burned hand with butter.

I remember that's what my mom used to

do when she burned herself cooking.

That felt much better.

Then I went out to feed my 

dwarf hotot rabbit to calm myself down.

The poor thing didn't look well.

It was squirting thin green streams

of evil smelling stuff all over the place.

Luckily I knew a good vet,

so I called him up.

"Hello" he answered promptly.

He sounded like Crazy Henry.

"Is this George Metcalf?" I asked.

"No one else" he said. "What

can I do you for?"

I told him the problem with my hotot.

He said "Just feed it some warm soapy

water and that'll clear it right up."

"Are you POSITIVE that's the right

procedure?" I implored him.

"Never fails" he said, still sounding 

like Crazy Henry.

"Thanks" I said faintly.

So I did like the vet said.

And my dear little dwarf hotot

rabbit got better.

My hand got better, too.

And the supermarket refunded my money

for the exploded toaster.

With which I bought several boxes 

of melba toast. I love spreading

lemon curd on it.

Sometimes life gives you a punch before

it gives you a hug.

Today's Timericks.

 

When it is a slow news day/reporters still must have their say/I don't say they fantasize/but new twists they improvise/on old themes of sex and crime/It sells papers all the time.

Tapioca can't be had/making boba drinkers mad/They will have to switch, I fear/to a Pepsi, or cold beer/Me, I just can't sympathize/with their passionate outcries/Drinking pudding ain't my thing/to the malted milk I cling.

Now I've read an article/about a wave or particle/that defies and then reverses/what we know of universes/Muons and their unknown kin/make of science a has-been/Throw out all the textbooks, chum/to start a new millennium. 

Welcome to Surveillance Land/where when you take an adverse stand/your face is recognized and linked/to the nearest grim precinct/Russia, China: all the same/You're ratted out by their mainframe.

Today's Timericks.

 

Uncle Sam can do no wrong/in places where he don't belong/Our troops will wipe away all tears/although it takes a thousand years/Perhaps if we stayed home a span/we wouldn't have Afghanistan.

The experts say that old T. rex/never really reached apex/It numbered but a couple thou/but I can tell you anyhow/even one's too much for me/if it's in my community!

Economic sanctions come in many shapes and sizes/but if they're used too frequently there may be some surprises/If too many countries feel the wrath of Mr. Biden/our foreign trade is bound to start a long and deep subsidin'.

Prose Poem: I am a Capitol Rioter.

 

I am a Capitol Rioter.

I was there, in the middle of things,

when it all went down.

I thought I was doing the right thing.

Now . . . I'm not so sure.

It all started innocently enough.

I was sitting on a butt-sprung couch

in my neighborhood used book store,

glancing through Goldwater's 

"Conscience of a Conservative"

when the calico cat on the counter

said clearly and distinctly to me:

"You're needed in Washington

to knock some sense into Congress."

The next day I was on the bus

to Washington, District of Columbia.

When I got there I found kindred souls

gathered outside the Smithsonian,

chanting and waving placards that read:

WE ARE NOT AMUSED.

I can't say there was any one person

or persons who organized our march;

to me it appeared completely spontaneous

and undirected. I was actually

headed down the street to get a hamburger

when the crowd surged towards Capital Hill,

and I was forced to go along.

I didn't really want to topple that

marble bust of Thomas Jefferson in

the Rotunda. Or throw granola bars

at departing legislators.

But everyone else was doing it.

So I went along.

It seemed to be my patriotic duty.

Bunker Hill all over again.

But the next day,

when reports started to circulate

that we were all being branded

as 'terrorists' and would be

hunted down and prosecuted

by the FBI,

I left town and moved to

a foreign country where my

hefty bank account assures me

complete anonymity.

And I help baby sea turtles hatching

during the full moon to make

it safely into the ocean.

That is an activity that gives me

peace and assurance of life's

basic goodness.

I'm beginning to think 

that calico cat was

all wet.