Coast-to-coast heat dome to deliver sweltering weather next week. (Mathew Cappucci for the WaPo.)

 

Do you know this man? He is wanted in ten states, and

not wanted in a dozen others.

The devil thought he'd take a peek

at the Midwest for a week.

It was stuffy down in hell,

so he'd cool off for a spell.

But when he stopped off in Des Moines

he roasted like a tenderloin.

Seeking comfort, he did jaunt

over to Shelburne Vermont.

There beneath the blazing sun

he baked up like a sally lunn.

Fleeing such enormous heat,

he headed to the Rockies' feet.

In Denver he turned into ash;

in Salt Lake he picked up heat rash.

He fled to Portland for a respite;

he was getting pretty desperate.

But the city held no charm --

it was like a four alarm.

"Back to hell I go!" said he.

"At least my office has a.c.!"

Businesses condemned Georgia’s voting law, then gave thousands to its backers. (Isaac Stanley-Becker, for the WaPo.)

 

Corporations like to be

thought full of integrity.

Corp'rate funding is the club

they use all bad things to drub.

In their mighty righteousness

they are careful with largesse.

Yet, when viewed at closer range,

their donations can seem strange.

Sometimes they will help finance

demagogues and their shrill rants.

Legislators who betray

common sense have their payday

from the likes of Comcast Inc. --

keeping pograms in the pink.

Thus the bizness hypocrite

sins while quoting holy writ;

keeping both sides satisfied

with profits always magnified.

Southern California cities rebel against new mask mandate, hinting at delta variant drama to come. (Erica Werner for the WaPo.)

 

Americans are tough as nails,

but we refuse to put on veils.

No matter what the bigwigs say

the nude face is now here to stay.

Delta, schmelta -- no big deal.

It seems as trite as glockenspiel.

The more the politicians whine

the more the people take a shine

to freedom from restraints and masks

and turn to more important tasks --

like picture shows, or baseball games

and cooking wienies over flames.

We'll not be masked again, I trow --

we seek a lethal status quo!

Bras in the parks, skivvies on Fifth Avenue: Is this the logical endpoint of increasingly blurred distinctions between public and private? (Guy Trebay for the NYT)

 

(to the tune 'Home on the Range.)

Oh, give me a home

where the nudists don't roam;

where the underwear stays quite unseen.

Where never is viewed

scanty clothing so lewd

that Hugh Hefner would call it obscene.

Bare, bare in the street --

where I'm seeing bold bosom and seat;

this summer the crowd

thinks full frontal's allowed

and my brain cannot hit the 'delete.'

Is ‘Loki’ a True Marvel Variant? Or Just a Fun Experiment? (Maya Phillips for the NYT)

 

I do not know for whom I speak

(unless it is the dentured clique)

but we are tired of the look

and the feel of comic book

on the big screen and TV --

what are daredevils to me?

I am old and still and staid;

I want no blood, but marmalade!

Something sweet and sour, too;

intelligent -- not ballyhoo.

But all I get are flying twerps

who must perform like Wyatt Earps.

Advertisers please take note;

my Kindle is the antidote!

Rogue oysters threaten to disrupt Tokyo Olympics, after officials shelled out $1 million for repairs. (Jennifer Hassan, for the WaPo.)

 

"What, me hurry?"

The walrus and the carpenter are needed right away

to clean up all the oysters clogging up ol' Tokyo Bay.

The sailing and the swimming and the floating are in peril,

as oysters that are roguish become vicious and quite feral.

Olympic water contests have been halted to consider

will they risk the athletes or give in to failure bitter.

Those darn Pacific oysters glue themselves to all debris

that floats upon the waters to a terrible degree.

They could sink an iceberg or a coal barge or a ferry;

they can't be served with lemon cuz they ain't too sanitary.

(I hope that this fiasco doesn't lead to hari kari.)

The Pitchers Whose Spin Rates Fell Most After a Crackdown on Sticky Substances. (Dedicated to sportswriter Tyler Kepner.)

 

Baseball pitchers are a breed

who feel pressured to succeed.

They have gotten pretty manic

throwing aero-damn-die-namic.

I'm not sure what all they've tried

to make their pitches curve and glide,

so this is just a partial guide:

Strands of bubble gum so pink

it makes umpires stop and think.

Bookish pitchers have been traced

to the use of library paste.

Mucilage from plants and snail

produce results that do not fail.

And of course a pitch is bent

with a dab of rubber cement.

Pine tar, asphalt, super glue --

in a pinch they all will do.

If a pitcher has chutzpah

he might even use some chaw.

In this techie age banal

could microchips be in the ball?

Or a nano-drone, I fear,

might sit astride the hurtling sphere.

Yes, pitchers are a breed that's wacky --

always searching for the tacky . . . 

Chinese Hackers in my Soup. (Dedicated to Lucy Craymer.)

 

Chinese hackers in my soup.

How can such an ethnic group

fiddle with my internet,

making life so vinaigrette?

I stay up all night afeared

of ransomware and cyber-weird.

Ain't the heat and drought severe

enough to make me drink strong beer?

And the joeys chased by dingoes

give my stomach pink flamingoes.

Now on top of that these creeps,

whom I would like to label '*bleeps*,'

are out to wreck my peace of mind --

just pour the Foster's til I'm blind . . . 

Prose Poem: There I was, minding my own business. (Dedicated to Hannah Knowles of the Washington Post.)

 

There I was,

minding my own business.

When nothing 

absolutely nothing

happened.

I'd been standing around,

minding my own business,

all day.

Didn't even take a 

bathroom break.

Just standing there,

not bothering anyone.

No eye contact with anyone.

Not a care in the world.

And nothing happened.

You can imagine my disappointment.

Or maybe you can't.

When you stand around

minding your own business

you have a right to expect

something sinister or foolish

or puzzling to

happen to you.

That's why people

stand around

minding their own business;

this is a well-understood

social convention:

An innocent man caught up

in a conspiracy

not of his own making.

But I minded my own business

in vain.

I went home without a 

bullet hole in my coat.

Without a note slipped

into my pocket.

Without being kidnapped,

arrested, or given a briefcase

with half a million dollars

in it.

Not even a trace

of radium dust

on my jacket.

I had a glass of warm milk

and went to bed.

And decided:

Tomorrow I will mind

someone else's business,

probably my brother's business,

and see what happens.

If he turns out to be an

international playboy

who turns into a werewolf

and robs banks during the 

full moon

I will give up Netflix

for Lent.

U.S. Habit of Backing Strongman Allies Fed Turmoil in Haiti. (NYT)

 

Americans are ailing, out of work, and in despair;

but furrin autocrats who pick our side have cash to spare.

We prop up shaky leaders with infusions from the mint

because we still are following some damn Cold War blueprint.

Like a mule we won't back up when once we pick a guy

to lead a foreign country, though he makes it a pigsty.

How long must we play Santa Claus and Dr. Seuss to those

who never show initiative but warn of dominoes?