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.

Washington and Wall Street. (Dedicated to Andrew Ackerman.)

 

In the halls of power, with marble so grand,
Whispers of deceit, deals made by the hand.
Bankers and bureaucrats weave a web so wide,
In the dance of corruption, in power they confide.

In Washington’s grasp, politicians hold sway,
Brokers from Wall Street come to play.
Amidst the gloss of progress, behind closed doors,
The common man’s wealth, secretly it implores.

Shadows of greenbacks cast long and lean,
The dance goes on, a sight unseen.
In their fox trot of greed, only one decree,
"Fill our coffers, let the little ones bleed."

From Main Street to farmsteads, from coast to coast,
It's the small, the weak, who lose the most.
The price of their dance, a toll we bear,
In silent resentment, in stifled despair.

But remember, there's power in the humble and low,
In unity's strength, resistance can grow.
A dance can be altered, a song can be changed,
If the piper’s tune, we choose to rearrange.

A chorus of voices, a melody of might,
Can reclaim the rhythm in the dark of night.
In the dance of the world, the steps are ours to make,
For it’s the people, not the puppeteers, who the future will stake.

Mime Troupes and Morality Plays. (Dedicated to Lily Janiak.)

 

In the heart of the square, where cobblestones lie,
Mime troupes don vivid veils, under the blue sky.
Their faces are pale, the stories are old,
They unfold medieval tales, in silence so bold.

The mimes, they play, the vices and virtues,
In a world void of words, where only movement accrues.
As mortal as man, as fleeting as day,
They portray life's trial in a mute ballet.

Beguiling at first, their silent discourse,
Yet the crowd starts to thin, showing remorse.
For in the age of the loud, of the vivid and clear,
A mime's quiet narrative falls on a deaf ear.

The innocence of folly, the cost of pride,
In their subtle gestures, these truths abide.
But these tales of old, so deep and profound,
In the bustle of now, hardly resound.

Still, they persist, these brave mime troupes,
Playing out sin and salvation in silent loops.
A silent echo of time, a morality spree,
Unheard in the clamor of modernity.

Alas, in the era of sound and fury,
Their timeless tales are lost in the hurry.
Mimed morality plays - a forgotten feast,
Drowned out by the noise of the clamorous beast.

Planning a Block Party. (Dedicated to Karen Garcia.)

 

In the heart of the day, beneath the sun’s vibrant array,
A neighborhood block party is in full, resplendent play.
Lawns transformed into banquet halls, sidewalks a festive bazaar,
Children's laughter, music's tune, both near and far.

Grilled delights perfume the air, an open feast for all,
The clink of glass and cheerful toast, summer's sweetest call.
Yard games commence, bocce balls are tossed,
In this timeless celebration, no one counts the cost.

We break the ice with lemonade, fresh, and homemade pie,
Served from porch-steps, kitchen decks, under a cotton-candy sky.
The street, a stage for children's dance, chalk art in bloom,
A picture of community in the afternoon.

Then comes the time, as twilight nears, for the talent show,
Jugglers, singers, comics, magicians stealing the afterglow.
A painted face, a puppeteer, a storyteller spins a yarn,
Captivating, charming, under the early evening's charm.

As moonlight gilds the neighborhood, and stars above us gleam,
There’s flickering glow of fireflies, a whispering night’s dream.
We sit on blankets, faces upturned, for a movie under the stars,
Enjoying the simplicity, the friendship, and candy bars.

When dawn's light touches the quiet streets, the remnants of delight,
We'll hold the joy of unity, of shared laughter in the night.
A block party's end, but memories endure,
In every neighborhood heart, the fun and warmth secure.

the united states is destroying its once vast chemical arsenal. at last. (Dedicated to John Ismay.)

 

Once where fear dwelt, and shadows cast,
A lethal legacy, now outlast.
No more the specter of the unseen,
Chemical foes, erased and clean.

Awake, rejoice, for there's a victory won,
A brighter chapter has begun.
The United States, with steady gaze,
Cleared the path through a toxic haze.

The threat dissolved, the deed is done,
Underneath the watchful sun.
No longer hidden in our midst,
The phantom menace will be missed.

From dark to light, the world does shift,
With this burden set adrift.
Lessons learned, history's page turned,
In peace and safety, we've discerned.

A sigh of relief, the globe does breathe,
An age of fear, we finally leave.
Today we stand on common ground,
Where love, not war, is the only sound.

Rejoice, rejoice, with voices strong,
Echoing the triumphant song.
In unity, we share this news,
Of a future we choose, free of chemical blues.

Thank You, Michelle Kaufusi.

 

In the heart of our fair valley Provo lies,
A shining gem beneath the wide, blue skies.
One name does echo 'round our radiant sphere,
Our Mayor Michelle, a leader we hold dear.

She stands a beacon, bright against the night,
With vision clear and courage in her sight.
Her tireless service, deep as canyon's bend,
Reveals a steadfast, and a faithful friend.

For rich and poor, for young and aging too,
She weaves a tapestry in diverse hue.
Her policies of equity unfold,
In tales of unity and love retold.

She's raised our city's voice in national song,
Through trials and triumphs, however long.
Provo's reputation glows, a rising star,
Its brilliance seen both near and far.

From Wasatch peaks to fertile valley's crest,
Mayor Michelle gives nothing but her best.
And in her charge, our cherished city thrives,
A beacon of hope, where every soul arrives.

So here's to Michelle, who guides Provo's days,
Her outstanding ability ever amaze.
Through all her deeds and words so nobly said,
She's cast a crown of glory on Provo's head.

In the hands of thoughtless youth. (Dedicated to Jason DeRusha.)

 

In the hands of thoughtless youth, a sparkler's merry dance,
Becomes a tool of recklessness, and chance takes its chance.
In the thrill of fleeting light, in the laughter of the night,
Dwells the danger unbeknown, when safety's out of sight.

A box of fireworks, misused, a bonfire of delight,
Turns quickly into terror's flame, in the absence of the light.
Young hearts see only joy's facade, in the burst of colored sky,
But forget the deadly power held, in the pyrotechnics high.

Playing with such potent tools, as if they were mere toys,
Puts at risk both life and limb, in pursuit of fleeting joys.
For the sparks that fly are not just light, but embers burning hot,
And when handled without due care, cause harm that's dearly bought.

Homes and trees set ablaze, from an ill-timed rocket's glare,
Witness to the reckless act, in the sultry summer air.
In the wake of youthful folly, lies destruction and despair,
A stern reminder of the cost, when caution's lost to dare.

Respect the flame, the bursting star, the cascade of the night,
For in their beauty lies a beast, that's eager for a fight.
Let's educate our young, impress upon them this truth plain,
That reckless acts can kindle woe, in every fiery rain.

So let us celebrate with care, with fireworks that delight,
Safeguard lives and property, in the soft and starlit night.
In every burst of joy and awe, let caution play its part,
And let wisdom guide each hand, and understanding every heart.

A Dog Named Balut. (Dedicated to Wade Lambert.)

 

In a world that's chaotic, yet strangely astute,
There’s a joy in my heart for my doggie, Balut.
His wagging tail meets me at the end of the day,
With warmth and excitement in purest display.

He chases after shadows, in summer sun's light,
His barks are a symphony in the hush of the night.
At parks and on pathways, we make our own route,
Life’s never a bore with my jolly dog, Balut.

Through fields of daisies, we gallop and roam,
With Balut by my side, I'm never alone.
His eyes hold a magic, an unspoken tribute,
To the love and loyalty of my dear friend, Balut.

In winter's chill or the heat of July,
He stays close to me, always nearby.
He's not just a pet, not just a cute mute,
He’s a faithful companion, my darling Balut.

The scratches, the fetches, the games we partake,
Each memory with him is a pleasure to make.
In his fur, I find comfort, in his silence, a flute,
A melody of love, from my best mate, Balut.

As stars fill the night, and in dawn's first light,
He is my shield, my unyielding knight.
In the company of Balut, all worries dilute,
What a splendid joy, to own a dog like Balut.