(Dedicated to Elizabeth Bernstein, of the Wall Street Journal.)
I wish all cherubs straight to Hell.
Their arrows for scrap I would sell.
Fondants, nugats, marzipan;
take it to the garbage man.
Cardboard hearts with tinsel bright
should burn to light up this whole night.
Plow the flower beds beneath
the frosty smarmy winter heath.
Close the cafes and thee-aye-ters;
throw Hallmark to allee-gay-ters.
Martyr Valentine anew!
With my heart he'll never screw!
Her ear lobes carry
drops of water in the pool
like diamond earrings.
She lays in the sun
as I wish away cold winds;
her closed eyes aglow.
She wears yellow gloves
to wash dishes at night;
I dry by her side.
I went to top the tank off
when my eyes beheld a sign
that said a gallon of the stuff
was ninety-bucks-and-nine.
"Woe is me!" I hollered
as my wallet shriveled up:
"I can't afford a gallon now
or even half a cup!"
I parked my car, then shot it;
so it would not suffer pain --
My motor oil and brake fluid
I poured right down the drain.
Luckily I worked at home,
and never did commute --
but any walking was a strain
and wore out boot on boot.
I tried the train; I tried the bus --
but all I did was wait and cuss.
Was I a hermit soon to be,
confined at home with my TV?
And then I met the girl next door,
and soon discovered sweet l'amour.
But she would never take a step
without a car in which to schlep.
And so she broke my heart, alas --
and all because of costly gas!
This talk of war in the Ukraine
made my love life something vain.
But then the Russians came around,
and the price came tumbling down.
Now there's gasoline galore
(but with Russia WE'RE at war . . . )
灰色の石の公園のベンチ-
冷たい融雪水を集める;
老人はそれを見つめます。
Under the black stairs --
green stains and yellowing mops;
a plastic bucket.
Under the black stairs --
shiny concrete floor and walls;
forgotten stale air.
Under the black stairs --
more black stairs and more black stairs;
there is no ending.
Moon on the mountain --
orange from the sun's last rays;
the sanguine day done.
Moon on the mountain --
the frozen snow burning red
from the failing sun.
Moon on the mountain --
waiting for the sun's last ebb;
a pale assassin.
Sven and Axel made a bet
on an athlete Soviet.
When she fizzled out, they sighed:
"Helvete! Ve took a ride!"
Next they tried a slalom team
cuz they liked their color scheme.
When their team ran last the pain
nearly tore apart their brain.
So they tried the lottery
and lost their Kroner handily.
They are betting fools extreme,
which is ev'ry Norseman's dream.
Even when the country bans
Sven and Axel's greedy hands
from disposing of their dough,
they still manage cash to blow
on the races or the wheel;
so they're mostly down-at-heel.
Whether soccer, track, or darts,
Norsemen always lose their hearts
to the sure thing coming soon --
causing all their wives to swoon.
If a bet you'd like to win
pick out any rolling pin;
then put down your ready bread
that it will hit a spiller's head!
The blurry white moon --
my insomnia;
yawning in tandem.
The blurry white moon --
a blue light on the stark cold;
tree branches blackened.
The blurry white moon --
a pill and drink of water;
back to her pink warmth.
ぼやけた白い月-
錠剤と水の飲み物;
彼女のピンクの暖かさに戻ります。
Piles of cut cedar --
holes where the grubs are digging;
piles of brown sawdust.
Piles of cut cedar --
silver in the cold sunlight;
all the bark fell off.
Piles of cut cedar --
stumpy branches reaching out;
catching plastic bags.
カット杉の山-
ずんぐりした枝が手を伸ばす。
ビニール袋をキャッチします。***************************
by Amy
the smell of fried eggs --
is yellow, white, and charcoal;
the color of youth.
We were eating shredded paper.
It goes well with library paste.
Which there isn't any.
The supply chain, you know.
We haven't seen a piece of meat
since Elon Musk came back from Jupiter.
My wife stole a package of chicken paws
for the kids -- that's why we're all in jail now.
It's not a bad place. There's no bars.
The supply chain, you know.
The Mister lets us watch the sun dial.
And we have a rock garden behind the gallows.
When we get rehabilitated we have a lovely home
waiting for us in Haines City.
Provided by Mr. Hypocephalus,
the Greek shipping magnate.
He's going to give me a job.
Nutria wrangler.
I'll need a bullwhip
and chapped lips.
Until then we study tap dancing
and stamp out bumper stickers.
The kids really seem to take to it;
their latest slogan: "Always support the bottom."
Since there wasn't any library paste
we had to eat our shredded paper
with chimney soot.
My wife had hers on the rocks.
Suddenly the warden burst in
like a herd of sagebrush.
"The Governor has gone to Wichita!"
he said breathlessly.
We all knew what that meant.
Except the warden.
"What does that mean?" he asked me.
"The trucks are rolling again!" I told him.
The prison became a bedlam.
Riot and revelry took over.
I sheltered my family under
the spreading chestnut tree.
When it was over
I took my family to
Ur of the Chaldees.
But there was only one
Chaldee left.
The rest were on convoy
in Canada.
The vaccine, you know.