Woman left dead mom wrapped in newspaper while she sapped her bank account. (Mark Lungariello for the New York Post.)

 

"An Arkansas woman left her mother’s dead body wrapped in newspaper for months while she slept in the same house and sapped her mom’s bank account, authorities said."

In Arkansas when your are dead

no coffin do you get, instead

they have you all appareled

in the Pine Bluff Daily Herald.

*

Like the pharaohs of past ages

your hollowed corpse is stuffed with pages

of the local news and then

it's ready for the grand Amen.

*

Folk in Arkansas are canny;

 when it's time to take old Granny

to her final resting place

she's wrapped up like a chunk of plaice.

*

You might say stiffs in Arkansas

have joined the Fourth Estate -- haw! haw!

Eternal headlines they will read

while worms and bugs inside them breed.

*

Let's hope the news won't cause reflection

that makes them miss the Resurrection!

Prose Poem: Democracy dies in darkness. It turns out, foxes steal newspapers in darkness, too. (John Kelly for the WaPo.)

 

TIm Torkildson, otherwise known as 'Foxy Grandpa.'

"Every few years, I hear about foxes that are stealing newspapers. In 2009, it was happening in Alexandria’s Yacht Haven subdivision, where a fox (or foxes) unknown was plucking The Washington Post, the Washington Times, the Examiner and the Mount Vernon Gazette from in front of people’s houses."

I found a fox sitting on my front porch

reading my newspaper

this morning.

"Would you like some coffee?"

I asked it facetiously.

"Earl Grey tea, if you don't mind"

replied the fox.

Another fox strolled out

from the bushes and joined

the first one.

"Could I have the sports

section, please?" it asked

the first fox.

This was getting too much for me,

so I went back inside to make

vichyssoise to serve chilled at dinner --

that always calms me down.

When I came back out on the porch

the foxes were gone,

and so was my newspaper.

My dog Rufus came up to me;

it smelled like it had been rooting

around inside a dead skunk.

"Well" I said to it, "can you talk

now too? Where did those foxes

go with my newspaper?"

Rufus just barked at me, 

then went over to the corner

of the porch with direct sunlight

and lit up a meerschaum pipe.

So I decided that if animals can

act like humans,

humans can act like animals.

If you want me

I'll be hanging upside down

with my hands and feet

from a branch of the sycamore tree,

like a three-toed sloth.

I've left instructions for the 

newspaper to be delivered on

top of my stomach each morning.

Touring Trinity, the Birthplace of Nuclear Dread. (Dennis Overbye, for the NYT.)

 "A recent visit to the site of the first atomic bomb explosion offered desert vistas, (mildly) radioactive pebbles and troubling reflections."

Nuclear fission contains/the work of the world's finest brains/Whether a blessing/or menace distressing/depends on who's holding the reins. 

Photo Essay: A Letter to my Grand Daughter Ceci.

 

Former Clown Peggy Williams Looks Back on Her Decade in the Ringling Bros. Circus. (Stacey Althen, for Sarasota Magazine.)

 

Tim Torkildson, AKA Dusty the Clown. Long ago and far away . . . 

Long ago and far away

clowns did banish all the grey.

*

Raucous faces, wigs on fire;

they obeyed no staid umpire.

Whatever rules they might accept,

at bending them they were adept.

*

Shuffling in clown shoes which

gave the audience a stitch,

they took pratfalls and soap pies --

wore the most enormous ties.

*

All to make the world much brighter

for the average anklebiter.

*

They were savage sometimes, too;

slapstick is not cordon bleu.

*

Clowns created chaos, sure;

but their grins were clean and pure.

*

Where their like today might be

is a slighted mystery.

*

No one wants to give first aid

to the baggy pants brigade --

so the sly and silly clown

of yesteryear won't come to town . . . 

Study paints stark picture of how some get mired in collections because they can’t pay medical bills. (Erin Blakemore in the WaPo.)

 

This patient suffers under the delusion he is a poet; doctors hold out no hope for a cure.

I've been in debt to doctors all my life it seems to me;

From babies to their acne -- now my colonoscopy.

*

Some clinics have been patient and have given me a break;

but others are so ruthless they would shame a cobra snake.

*

They've called me up at breakfast; they have called at midday meal;

they knock upon my door at night, so my repose they steal.

*

Even with insurance and that good old Medicaid,

those medical collectors treat me like a renegade.

*

They threaten with foreclosure and the repo of my car;

they try to take my salary (hah! that won't get them far.)

*

Talk about your pound of flesh; they'd also like my liver

unless a couple thou today I promise to deliver.

*

I've moved and changed my phone number and from now on I'll tarry

not with doctors anymore but reps from mortuaries.

Police shootings continue daily, despite a pandemic, protests and pushes for reform. (WaPo)

 

"Since 2015, police have fatally shot more than 6,400 people."

I remember long ago

our grade school textbooks pealed

with praises for the men in blue --

our nation's finest shield.

*

But now I am distressed to find,

according to statistics,

the cops don't care a fig for law

but only for ballistics.

*

It's like the days of Wyatt Earp

and necktie parties, too;

police are shooting from the hip

at every bugaboo.

*

There's too much gun play in the land;

too many screws are loose --

I hope police and public can

work out some kind of truce.

*

For otherwise this frail old man

that I've become today

will simply lock my door for good

and in my bunker stay . . . 

Facebook’s Next Target: The Religious Experience. (Elizabeth Dias, for the NYT.)

 

The company is intensifying formal partnerships with faith groups across the United States and shaping the future of religious experience.

Facebook walks on water;

of this you can be sure.

With faith-based cooperation,

they offer a free cure.

*

Live streaming congregations

engaged in worship plain;

the hungry will be sated

and invalids lose pain.

*

So stay at home and ponder

the miracles achieved

when Facebook gets religion

(and makes the devil peeved!)

*

It's cyber-manna certain;

a feast upon your screen.

With cursor you can study

real saints like Augustine.

*

A portal for opinions

that reek of piety;

who needs misinformation

when dogma is so free?

Can The Left Regulate Sex? (Ross Douthat, for the NYT.)

 

Dirty Old Men Of The World Unite! You Have Nothing To Lose But Your Pants! 

In general the recent trend has been toward more regulation: The sexual-assault tribunals on college campuses, the changing rules of workplace harassment, the new politesse surrounding pronouns and sexual identity. Part of this reflects a pattern often observed by conservatives, in which certain forms of sexual liberation seem to require more micromanagement than the old “thou shalt nots” — like the rigor required to distinguish supposedly empowering “sex work” from the exploitative variety, or purportedly egalitarian pornography from the misogynist or pedophilic sort.

Ross Douthat. 

The battle of the genders

has so many loud contenders.

*

The balances and checks

for contemporary sex

are so silly and complex

that Don Juan they would perplex.

*

We all need a vacation

from sexual liberation.

*

A few well-placed taboos

would be such refreshing news.

*

And perhaps 'twould be in fashion

to abjure all crimes of passion.

*

Do you think I am a boor

to go back to days of yore

when the talk of birds and bees

was feared more than Bright's Disease?

*

I suppose I must be daft

to think all this darn sexcraft

that intrudes upon my world

should be lowered and then furled.

*

I guess that I'll go in the closet

and my geezer butt deposit

while I wait for times to change

and sexuality to grow less strange . . . 

Evictions are about to restart as tenants wait on billions in unspent rental aid. (WaPo)

 

"As courts prepare to allow evictions again, only 12 percent of $25 billion approved in December has reached people in need."

There was a man, a wicked man,

who called himself our Uncle Sam.

*

He had so many bags of gold

the count of them could not be told.

*

He got his gold from pockets picked,

and his conscience never pricked.

*

He liked to promise succor to

anyone he ran into.

*

Pauper, penguin, common thief --

he would grant them all relief.

*

Since he had great piles of cash,

no one thought his promise rash.

*

But his promised aid was slower

than a rusted push lawnmower.

*

In dribs and drabs he parceled out

nothing much but sauerkraut.

*

Pennies that could do no good

to restore one's livelihood.

*

Renters never saw a shred

and were evicted on their head.

*

 But with a smile our Uncle claimed

the postal service should be blamed.

*

Or maybe global warming stopped

all the manna being dropped.

*

Anyway, those promised aid

never ever did get paid.

*

But Uncle Sam continues to

promise skies of sunny blue.

*

So go right up and ask him now

to provide from his cash cow.

*

He will write you a large check

(but won't explain the bottleneck.)

*

So when you try to cash it you

will meet with your own Waterloo.