Give me air conditioning or give me death! (Dedicated to Julia Carpenter.)

 

 

In the summer's fevered embrace, where sweat and desire interlace,
Sundry long for steak, seared and rich, for luxury such is their wish.
But give to me not meat's delight, nor pleasure drawn from appetite,
A humbler yearning stirs my soul, my comfort - the air conditioner's role.

While some seek sun-kissed skin and sand, and bodies bronzed by summer's hand,
I yearn not for a sun-soaked scene, with bathing beauties' radiant sheen.
Rather, I dream of icy plains, where snowfall weaves her endless chains,
In penguin's guise, I'd find release, in solitude, in icy peace.

The sun-drenched throng may scoff and jest, to them, my pleasure seems a jest,
Beneath the sun, they dance and sway, but I, in coolness, prefer to stay.
No sizzling steak or sultry beach could ever within my contentment reach,
For me, the summer's burning glare is naught compared to AC's care.

Such is the cool, steady hum, a lullaby to some,
It weaves a world of frost and snow, where heat and hunger seldom show.
Antarctica, in my dreams I roam, among the icebergs, I have found home,
Where frost-kissed winds do freely blow, in AC's steady, soothing flow.

Like penguins huddled against the storm, I feel not cold, but rather warm,
Amidst the snow and silent ice, I find a paradise concise.
While sun worshippers may sneer, I hold my frosted haven dear,
And shiver in my pleasure dome, the cold, my heart, forever home.

The scorching summer sun may reign, but I yearn for winter's domain,
Yearning for the icy blast, for summer's tyranny to be passed.
I call out to the frosty air, Old Man Winter, do not despair,
Hasten forth your frosty reign, bring your soothing, icy rain.

Oh Old Man Winter, hear my plea, make haste, return and set me free,
Exchange the heat for your frosty kiss, grant me my icy bliss.
End the reign of summer's tyranny, replace it with your gentle, icy sea,
Come, Old Man Winter, return and stay, and keep the burning sun at bay.

LGBT History is America's History. (Dedicated to Ben Chapman.)

 

 

In classrooms of stone and chalk, a story left untold,
Of lovers bold, of spirits free, of courage strong and gold.
Not tales of battles fought with swords, but battles of the heart,
A missing piece of history's scroll, an integral part.

In rainbows of identity, diverse in every hue,
Lies the LGBT story, full of life, authentic and true.
To cloak it in the shadows, deny its rightful place,
Is to rob the young of wisdom, blind them to grace.

Each tale spun in the classroom, it shapes the world we see,
For from knowledge comes understanding, from understanding, empathy.
Stories of love and struggle, of triumph over pain,
These are the lessons crucial, etched deep in every brain.

Ignorance breeds intolerance, so let our children learn,
Of the many roads to love and life, at each and every turn.
Tales of Stonewall's fiery night, of bravery shown in the face,
Of intolerance and bigotry, of finding one's true space.

Reflect the many shades of love, in all its splendid forms,
Break down the walls of prejudice, reject the tiring norms.
Equality's not a tapestry woven with a single thread,
But a vibrant, rich mosaic of love's colors spread.

For the youth will craft tomorrow, in their hearts and minds,
A world more just, inclusive, leaving no one behind.
Teach them of the past's mistakes, of love's enduring strife,
And they'll create a future, where all may live their life.

So, unveil the LGBT history, let its truth unfurl,
Paint a more complete picture of our wide and wondrous world.
In our classrooms, let these stories sing, resonate and thrive,
For in diversity and tolerance, we truly come alive.

The years have caught up with me. (Dedicated to Bill Kole.)

 

Now I bask in the warm light of indolence,
No reason needed, 'cept for senescence.
The years have caught up, as they tend to do,
Finally, I am free to sip my lazy brew.

Gone are the days of nine to five,
Now in languor's arms, I joyfully dive.
Reports and deadlines, they all can flee,
For the years, my friend, have caught up with me.

"Oh, you're a slacker!" they used to chide,
But I've always let such remarks slide.
Now that I'm aged, grizzled and grey,
There's no need for excuses, I dare say.

I bask in the glow of my TV screen,
In sweatpants and slippers, no need to preen.
Years of rushing, all a memory,
Now the years have finally caught up with me.

Unhurried mornings, endless cups of tea,
Books and daydreams, as far as I can see.
Ah, sweet laziness, my jubilant decree,
For at long last, the years have caught up with me.

I'm not lazy, I'm just biding my time,
In the rhythm of retirement, a beautiful rhyme.
Why run and chase, when you can be free?
Thank the stars, the years have caught up with me.

So here’s to the joys of doing nothing at all,
To living life slow, letting the time crawl.
I'm not a slacker, just finally living carefree,
Blessed be the years, for they've caught up with me.

The Hollywood Writer's Strike. (Dedicated to Samantha Chery.)

 

 

In the heart of Tinseltown, a discordant note rings,
Hollywood's scribes have downed their tools, silenced are the kings,
Scripted fantasies are frozen, on paper they remain,
In directors' heads, their visions - but their voices, they restrain.

Their words that fuel the dreams of many, stand in stark defiance,
No longer playing puppeteer in the dance of compliance,
TV screens grow silent, movie reels refuse to spin,
In the kingdom of the silver screen, a rebellion from within.

For each has found their power, in the silence and the pause,
They will no longer write on demand, without a noble cause,
No more cardboard characters, no plots absurd and thin,
In the absence of their labor, may a new era begin.

Now Netflix waits in nervousness, its catalogue growing bare,
Marvel's heroes rest awhile, mid-flight in comic air,
The ceaseless churn of mediocrity, finally at an end,
The call for true artistry, the writers did send.

From the ashes of this strike, a phoenix may just rise,
Stories told with more depth, no longer simply franchise,
The slate wiped clean, a canvas fresh, the writers hold the key,
To a future of more substance, where true storytelling's free.

So, hail this Hollywood strike, though it may seem severe,
For in its wake, we may just find, a cinematic sphere,
Where artistry is valued, and stories truly matter,
And the din of vapid content, begins to simply shatter.

For if we see no longer the incessant, thoughtless churn,
Then perhaps we'll value more the tales that truly burn,
Deep within our hearts, they'll resonate and thrive,
Heralding a new dawn, where quality will survive.
 

Threads vs Twitter. (Dedicated to Art Raymond)

 

 

There is nothing Twitter dreads more than Meta's brand new Threads,
A social network change the pace, on this grand stage, it treads.
Boldly entering the internet's high stakes game,
Twitter pales in comparison, feeling old, quite lame.

Once as vibrant as a rotary phone, now just an antique,
Twitter struggles to maintain its peak.
Its character limit, once a sly trick,
Now feels restrictive, a candle wick burnt quick.

Enter Threads, the innovative brainchild of Zuckerberg's mind,
A realm where thoughts can flow, unconfined.
Where conversation can flourish, ideas interlace,
Threads provides a dynamic, pulsing space.

People, they flock to Meta's newest gift,
Twitter's relevance down a precipitous rift.
The era of Tweets seems like distant past,
In the face of Threads, shadows it cast.

Musk's Twitter realm, once so popular, so bold,
Now seems weathered, stale, and old.
Zuckerberg's Threads, however, fresh and inviting,
Leads the social media era, bright and exciting.

In the realm of progress, the old must give way,
Twitter, like the rotary phone, has had its day.
The future is Threads, its appeal widespread,
A new age of communication, excitingly bred.

So, here lies Twitter, beneath Meta's expanding sky,
As obsolete as a rotary phone, we bid goodbye.
The world embraces Threads, its potential untold,
A testament to innovation, brave and bold.
 

In the MAGA mirror, Trump's personal peril looks like a personal threat. (Dedicated to Jesus Rodriguez.)

 

 

In the realm of power where voices intertwine,
Trump echoes loudly, his tactics bold yet fine.
A charisma like no other, his followers align,
Yet their hearts flicker with a disquieting sign.

His maneuvers skirt the edge of the lawful abyss,
In the political realm, it's a perilous bliss.
Yet those who stand with him in the boisterous mist,
Question the whirlwind, their loyalty amiss.

With every decree, each executive order,
Some fear they're pawns in his chaotic disorder.
Each rally cry, each accusatory recorder,
Does it herald trouble across the border?

For each legal misstep, a potential cascade,
That might implicate them in the mess he's made.
His words might shield him in the media parade,
But will their compliance render them betrayed?

They stand on the precipice, filled with unease,
Each tweet, each controversy, failing to please.
Could they, too, be tangled in his complex squeeze,
And be swept away by a legal breeze?

In the heart of his fervor, they're left to wonder,
At the echo of a gavel, a growing thunder.
Trump's reign, his tactics, the political plunder,
Leaves them in the tremor of potential asunder.
 

When A.I. Rules the Entertainment World. (Dedicated to Amol Sharma.)

 

 

 

(1)
On screens that hum with a pixellated light,
In echoes of laughter, in stories untold,
AI is the scribe that writes through the night,
Unleashing narratives, both new and old.
No longer do humans hold exclusive right,
To create the tales that on screens unfold.

(2)
In shadows of silver, on film celluloid,
AI crafts a drama with depth and scope.
Director, actor, both now devoid,
Replaced by algorithms that challenge hope.
Yet, in the echoes of what's been destroyed,
Lies the question - can a machine truly cope?

(3)
Now music whispers from silicon throats,
In melodies sweet, born from binary hearts.
Each note, each chord, algorithmically floats,
Creating symphonies, state-of-the-art.
But will this coded song in the end promote,
A world where human touch has no part?

(4)
The written word, once a human feat,
Now flows from AI with flawless ease.
Books and articles in every seat,
Created not by hand, but by machines.
Yet in the heart of each tale replete,
Will there remain a human's tease?

(5)
In the realm of sports, AI takes the field,
Predicting outcomes with unnerving skill.
From player stats to the protective shield,
It controls the game, bending it to its will.
Are we prepared for the world it's revealed,
A future that's algorithmically distilled?

(6)
On billboards high and banners wide,
AI crafts the message to sell and sway.
Human designers set aside,
As algorithms now hold sway.
Yet, can we trust this digital tide,
To ethically lead the way?

(7)
As AI encroaches upon our sphere,
In every field, in every way,
A question echoes, drawing near -
What is the human role to play?
Yet, in our hearts, let's hold no fear,
For we are the dreamers, come what may.
 

Tons of fancy office furniture has been moldering in storage since the start of Covid. (Dedicated to Stefanos Chen.)

 

In the bustling heart of the city that never sleeps,
Rise towers where office furniture in silence weeps,
When tired of the hustle, when no longer in demand,
Begins a fantastic journey, strange and unplanned.

On a moonbeam they hitch a ride, quite out of sight,
In the stillness of the cosmos, under lunar light.
Desks of mahogany, chairs of chrome and leather,
Rest in lunar craters, weathered by ether.

Martians with their flying saucers, zipping across the stars,
Collect unwanted filing cabinets, vintage typewriters, seminar chairs.
In Martian living rooms, Earthly furniture finds its place,
An alien curiosity, a touch of the human race.

Swiss chefs with a secret, their recipe quite unique,
Transform the worn-out office tables into gourmet mystique.
As tender Swiss steak, the transformed relics find a plate,
An unassuming dinner, of a furniture's fate.

To China they're shipped, with histories invented,
As faux antique Chippendale, the past reinvented.
These once-neglected pieces, now adored anew,
Bearing false tales of centuries, only if they knew.

And thus, New York City's office castaways,
Travel on their unexpected, surreal pathways.
Once overlooked, now shining in moon's glow,
Or Martian decor, or a meal, or in China's show.

If I had a private chef. (Dedicated to Ashley Wong.)

 

 

If I had a private chef, to cook for me each day,
Rib-eyes from Kobe beef, in all their rich display.
Seared to tender perfection, with a pat of truffle butter,
Roasted and delightful, a delicacy like no other.

Wild berries from the Arctic, Fuyu persimmons rare,
Garnishing my platter, like jewels beyond compare.
Mangoes ripe from tropics, with their succulent delight,
A cornucopia of flavors, every day and night.

In my chef's skilled hands, greenery is not a bore,
Rare heirloom tomatoes, who could ask for more?
Tender greens and root vegetables, in colors bright and bold,
Sauteed in garlic-infused oils, a feast to behold.

A tangle of saffron linguine, sweet balsamic reduction,
Luxury in every bite, such edible seduction.
Risotto with morels and aged Parmesan,
Each spoonful a symphony, a gastronomic grand slam.

The sauces - oh the sauces! Velvet, rich and deep,
In velouté and beurre blanc, we're far too gone to sleep.
With cognac, cream, and caviar, they coat each savory piece,
Indulgence in each bite, our gluttony's release.

Gorging on such treasures, a feast for every sense,
The decadence is intoxicating, it’s all so immense.
Yet, beneath the sweet allure, a discomfort starts to grow,
A twisting, churning, gnawing pain, a sign of woe.

Alas, the bitter irony, as the pleasure turns to pain,
Feasting in such abundance, no longer our gain.
What was once a paradise, becomes a gastronomic hell,
In the symphony of flavors, a dissonant bell.

Desperate for a remedy, to the drug store I rush,
Through the aisles I wander, in a fevered hush.
Reaching for a savior, my salvation in pink,
A bottle of Pepto Bismol, to save me from the brink.

Sweet relief in chalky sips, my stomach starts to cool,
In the face of gourmet excess, a humbling tool.
I dream of simple broths, of grains and greens so light,
A stark contrast to the indulgence of last night.

My private chef stands ready, with renewed culinary fervor,
Yet my palate yearns for less, a simpler flavor.
There's wisdom in this indulgence, and in its painful cost,
In our quest for opulence, something else is lost.

Perhaps the finest banquet, is not in rich meats and gold,
But in the simple pleasures, our senses to behold.
A lesson learned from indigestion, a truth hard to swallow,
In our hunger for the finest feast, we forget how to wallow.
 

Student Debt Depression. (Dedicated to Andrew Restuccia.)

 

 

 

In halls of learning, whispers, like ivy, entwined,
With futures promised, young minds brightly shined,
Through books and theories, our dreams were woven,
But soon we found, the cost of wisdom cloven.
Loans accrued, the debtors swiftly called,
In the name of education, we were enthralled.

To parchment paths and lofty thought, we pledged,
In the hopes of brighter days, our futures hedged.
With a signature, we sealed our fate,
For a promised land, we'd not hesitate,
Bearing weighty chains of debt, a sour serenade,
In the shadow of knowledge, our innocence began to fade.

Upon graduation's stage, our triumph waned,
For the specter of debt, like a beast, remained.
We sought reprieve from the government's hold,
Dreaming of benevolence, bold and cold.
Yet our plea, in the halls of power, found no ear,
Only echoes of our dread, crisp and clear.

In the dance of numbers, our hopes were drowned,
As the federal hounds, in pursuit, were found.
Chasing us through streets of adulthood's making,
In the dawn and dusk, our peace forsaking.
The dream of wisdom, now a nightmare's silhouette,
Haunted by the specter of an insurmountable debt.

Once students bright, now weary debtors,
Bound by chains, shackled by collectors.
Our dreams, once vibrant, now washed in gray,
In the harsh light of the debtor's day.
A cruel lesson learned, a crueler price,
For the pursuit of knowledge, we rolled the dice.

Echoes of our plea still ring in the air,
Seeking justice, compassion, an affair so rare.
A generation's hope, tangled in red tape,
Our youthful optimism, lost in the escape.
We march on, dreams deferred yet unbowed,
In the shadow of the tower, where once we were proud.