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?

The media scramble at the heart of Trump Book Summer. (WaPo)

 

Donald Trump,

the has-been frump,

mistakes the buzz

which he thinks does

surround the books

about his crooks

as something which

with proper pitch

will elevate

his sorry state

and mend his luster

and fans muster.

Sorry, bub,

but you're a flub --

and won't be back

on inside track

till ducks need visas

and Hades freezes.

Two Rods and a ‘Sixth Sense’: In Drought, Water Witches are Swamped. (NYT)

 

Water witches are all wet;

how can anybody bet

on some rods waved at the ground

while the waver turns around?

Dowsing is baloney sliced,

plus a heist that is high priced.

It takes a special connoisseur

to locate any aquifer --

and always they are deep below,

and drilling to them is real slow.

By the time the work's complete,

the dowser ain't around to greet

an empty hole as dry as bone,

or help his victims pay their loan.

If you want to fight a drought

pray for rain and not a tout.  

‘They’re Killing People’: Biden Denounces Social Media for Virus Disinformation. (NYT)

 

Go online for truth complete;

you will find it very neat.

Wrapped up in a bow of drek;

just as good as bouncing check.

All the world doth like to boast

they have info, not compost,

from a source that's unimpeached

(Yet strangely never can be reached.)

Like the fabled lemming, who

jumps without a proper view

of its fatal fall to ground,

are the folks who won't come 'round

when presented with the proof

that the doctors tell the troof

about vaccination need --

I hope they never interbreed.

I Alone Can Fix This Poem.

 

I alone can fix this poem;

right now it doesn't scan.

The verses are uneven

and belong in garbage can.

But give me four years on the job

and you will see the diff;

although I'll have to push a few

vile traitors off a cliff.

I will make it great again,

this sorry piece of tripe;

'twill glitter with acuity

and overflow with hype.

I'll tear out all the leftist tropes;

nor rainbows cute employ --

the prevalence of voter fraud

shall be my whipping boy.

And then you'll see this mighty poem

rear up it's head in pride;

a Nobel Prize it shall obtain

or my name ain't Bromide!

A shortage of computer chips is keeping automakers from producing enough cars to meet rising demand. Used cars are scarce, too. (NYT)

 

"You gotta a car?"

"You gotta a car?"

The query echoes

near and far.

No matter what the price of gas --

America must drive en masse!

And dealerships both new and used

are feeling frightened and abused.

Those little dinky chips that we

took for granted stupidly

are scarce as hen's teeth nowadays,

leading to unfilled driveways.

Even junkers drivers crave

and caution for old lemons waive.

With passions running high and hearty

a car thief gets a necktie party!

When oh when will chips return?

When can rubber we all burn?

Woe is me, has fate decreed

returning to velocipede? 

No! It shall not happen thus --

our wheels are not superfluous!

We must have Ford and Lexus too --

while greenhouse gas goes up the flu!

Lindsey Graham pledges to ‘go to war’ for Chick-fil-A amid Notre Dame protest. (WaPo)

 

The chicken wars have started;

Lindsey Graham will recruit

thousands to his banner

where they'll march and stab and shoot.

Defending fast food fryers

that are godly and sincere

is what this Senate stalwart

sees as his agenda clear.

He wants no die-verse french fries;

he scorns the rainbow shake.

And he intends his nuggets

to not become fruitcake.

So rally 'round his ensign

and join the jubilee --

as Graham of the Bombast

proclaims faux victory!

Prose Poem: Why it's a dangerous time to be an old thing in America.

 

I had an old recliner that was taken away

and shot.

Then they came for my TV trays.

I fought them over my aged

cheddar cheese --

they handcuffed me to a 

steam calliope

before squishing the cheese

under their jackboots.

Interesting fact:

circus people pronounce the word

'kal-EE-ope.'

But of course steam 

calliopes,

however you pronounce them,

are a retro-terrorist threat,

and there are now none left.

Not even in museums.

But it all came apart when

they tried to pull down the Moon.

That thing's been around billions of years.

But when the men of liberal science tried

to pull it down with radio-magnetic waves

the Moon just went into a more elliptical 

orbit --

disrupting the tides and speeding up

global warming.

Icebergs didn't melt, exactly.

Somehow the bergs got heavier and sank

to the bottom of the ocean,

crushing the krill breeding grounds.

Then they sent men up to the Moon in

rockets to nuke it. 

Boy, they really hated that old Moon

because it has seen so much tyranny,

rape, slavery, and colonialism

and has never said a peep against it.

But here's the thing --

nuclear weapons won't work on 

the Moon --

something to do with the gravity

and atmosphere.

So they erected a statue to 

Everlasting Peace,

made out of the unexploded nuclear bombs,

in the Tycho crater.  

It's a great tourist attraction.

Tucker Carlson (from a story by Tiffany Hsu in the NYT.)

 

Tucker Carlson on Fox News

makes it plain he will not choose

any vaccination rising

from the medics he's despising.

Flying in the face of fact,

doing it with little tact,

Tucker Carlson on Fox News

is working quite a deadly ruse

on his fans who put their faith

in this television wraith.

Willful mass misinformation

could be the death yet of our nation . . .