"He calls her aunt..." Name Calling; or, He Calls/She Calls: A Nonsense Alphabet

(This isn't called 'nonsense' for nothing.)

I 

It's "he calls/she calls, she calls/he calls," 
all call'd oddball names. 
Be "she calls/he calls, he calls/she calls" 
homonymble games? 

He calls her aunt 'Aunt Tipp O'Dees.' 
So solitary, she. 
She calls his brother 'Brother ‘Hood.' 
Small-town. Small-time. (Small t.)

She calls his cat 'Cat Astrofee,' 
a "fee"-line wild when wet. 
He calls her dog 'Dog Mattic.' 
Spot's her high-'n'-mighty pet!

II

He calls her eyes 'Eye Tinnerants.' 
One's lazy. One's oblique. 
She calls his face 'Face Seeshuss.' 
Wily. Wry. And tongue-in-cheek.

She calls his gal 'Gal Lip O'Lee.' 
Gal sheds Italic tears. 
He calls her home 'Home Eric.' 
She's lived rough a score of years.

He calls her ire 'Ire Restmycase.' 
Her rages swiftly wane. 
She calls his jests 'Jest Tickle-8s.' 
He lives to yank her chain.

III 

She calls his kiss 'Kiss Seamy.' 
Both his lips be woebegones. 
He calls her legs 'Leg Yumes'n'peas.' 
All tops for hops on johns.*
     * And for Hoppin' John as well, 
of course.

He calls her mom 'Mom Mentum.' 
Ma's one universal force. 
She calls his neon 'Neon Nate.' 
"Let there be light"? Of course.

She calls his "om" 'Om Mega.' 
'Om''s the final word in wu.* 
He calls her pies 'Pies Zannoze.' 
He prefers peach pies. (Don't you?)
     * Wu is a Chinese equivalent 
to enlightenment.

IV 

He calls her quips 'Quips Psychosi?'* 
when sanity's in doubt. 
She calls his rap 'Rap Unzel' 
when it lets stuff all hang out. 
     * Roughly, "She's nutty, right?" 
in Late (very Late) Latin.

She calls his shoe 'Shoe Doldacquaint'
to dance each New Year in.
He calls her tie 'Tie Maftertime.'
(Same tie, reworn...ag'in.)

He calls her urn 'Urn Extrabucks.'
She hides one dime each week.
She calls his vest 'Vestibulees,'
a well-dressed ancient Greek.

V 

She calls his wig 'Wig Getthejoke.'
He lives for Halloween.
He calls her X 'X Marksthespot.'
Not here. Not there. Between!

He calls her Yule 'Yule Walkalone.'
Her same sad Xmas story.
She calls his zen 'Zen Offtosleep."
He snoozes through satori.

It's he calls/she calls, she calls/he calls:
homonymble games.
(But though they both call -- he calls/she calls --
neither calls me 'James.')

"I'd window shopp'd..." Handustan, the Land of Palms: A Doggerel Gazetteer In Rhyme As An Hommage To Manguel & Guadalupi, With A Verse Itinerarial Coda, A Nonsense Glossary & A Selective Map Including Detail

Handustan, the Land of Palms

I 

I’d window shopp'd in Hindustan. I'd flip-flopp'd o'er Balochistan. 
I’d cotton chopp'd in Kurdistan. I'd acid dropp'd near Kazakhstan. 

I’d razors stropp'd in Pakistan. I’d wet mopp'd dry Uzbekistan. 
I’d charts topp'd in Tajikistan. I’d hip-hopp'd ‘round Turkmenistan. 

I’d pleas copp'd in Afghanistan. I’d island hopp'd ‘cross Baltistan. 
And though I'd never opted to, I’d whistle stopp'd in Kyrgyzstan. 

I'd thought I’d haunted ev'ry “-stan,” as tourist, tramp or triggerman. 
Surprise! 'Twas one I'd fail'd to scan. The natives call'd it Handustan.  

II 

Thought I: "Treks there require aplombs. One untrod '-stan'?" I suffer'd qualms 
(which ale – two pints of Bass – becalms). One fret? Those unexploded bombs. 

My roommates, via intercoms, inform'd me how their aunts and moms 
wept, urging me to chant the Psalms while gifting local beggars alms. 

I ponder'd: "Were they Vietnam’s?" (The bombs, I'd meant, not roomies moms. 
It turn'd out most of ‘em were Guam’s, though some proved French, perhaps La Prom’s.) 

Ukraine's still famous for pogroms, as Arab states are, for salaams. 
As Gilead's the land of balms, so Handustan’s the land of palms. 

III 

'Cross Handustan stretch Finger Lakes. Ring Finger's home to Old World crakes. 
In Index Finger? Schools of hakes. (The natives crave their Hakefish steaks.)

For Middle Finger Lake make drakes. Young rappers? No! (For heaven sakes!) 
In Pinky Finger slither snakes. One bite and...ouch! One's tummy aches!

In Handustan a forest grows -- for short call'd F'ist. (Why? No one knows.)
Its full names's ForeWrist -- rows on rows of palms wherein perch ForeWrist Crows...

...who'll claw clean off your back clean clothes and nonchalantly lop your nose. 
These fowls are quite les quelque choses. But few've encounter'd one of those.

IV 

Handustan tors number two. The higher? Venus Mount. The view
when climbers summit Venus? Whew! (The view from Luna Mount's nice, too.)

The northern bit, call'd Upper Hand, is skirted by a blist'ring strand
where suckers once for hangnails pann'd. (None struck it rich, though all got tann'd.)

The rolling hills of Knuckle Down (in Spring, shagreen -- though now turn'd brown), 
are work'd by shepherds from the town by pastur'd goats with wool like down...

from which stemm'd Handustan's renown when warpp'd and woof'd into a gown
then donn'd by Clarabelle the Clown, who'd "thumbs-down'd" ev'ry hand-me-down. 

V 

The western quarter, mostly sand, is label'd Left Hand. In demand
there? Bedrock. Multi-stories? Bann'd. (There are some yurts and hogans plann'd.)

Due east of Left Hand lies a plain call'd Right Hand, where dwell, in the main,
the polis, nurtur'd by these twain: an Asian sun plus Europe's rain.

Listen! Don't you hear that hum? In Right Hand lies the town of Thumb.
Thumb's charter, call'd the Rule of Thumb, keeps "underThumb" that burg, by gum.

The tithes folks pay, the Thumb Tax, some believe to be, put briefly, dumb.
But pay Thumb's suckers do. In sum: for tax relief none beat the drum. 

VI 

At last I'd pass'd through ev'ry "-stan." I'd caravan'd through Handustan,
now, "-stan"-wise, just an also-ran. (Regarding "-stan"s, I'm Superman.)

En fin each man does all he can within his three-score-ten-year span.
Still, one "-stan" rocks like Harmattan. The natives call it Handustan. 

Getting There: A Coda 
  

Handustan-

bound...?

My best suggestion? Go well dressed. Set forth chemise'd – a shirt, at least

(or, though unpressed, a special vest. Mine (leather)? Leased and well policed).

From east of Pest, finesse your geste by heading east – three weeks at least.

At Bucharest – I would not jest – your vest divest...or, have it creased. 

When's ceased your quest (oh, good: you've guess'd), just stop. And rest. Then, on the feast
of San Baptiste (I'm his high priest), you take (if past tense, 'took') a look a-

round.

The HanduBook: An Abecedarial Glossary for the Land of Palms

(Full entries to come: a work in progress) 

All handus on deck! 
Back of my handu, the

Clap your handus! 

Dead man's handu
Dishpan handus
Dry your handus! 

Empty handu'd 
Fold your handus!

Glad handu
Grandma's handus 
Handuaxe 
Handubag

Handuball

Handubasket, hell in a

Handubrake

Handucapp’d parking

Handucraft

Handucuffs

Handu-dandu 
Handul, George Frideric

Handugun

Handu-held camera

Handu-in-glove 
Handu-in-handu 
Handujive

handukerchief
Handumaiden

Handuman 

Handu-me-down 
Handuprints

Handurail

Handus across the water 

Handu sanitizer 

Handusaw

Handushake

Handus off! 
Handustand

Handutowel

Handus up!

Handuwriting on the wall 
Hired handu

In God's handus

Jesus's handus 
Kiss on the hand, a 
Left Handu 
Living handu-mouth 
Made by handu 
My handus are tied

Mojo handu
Nine handus hight 
Out of my handus
Praying Handus 

Quick handus 
Right Handu 
Short-handu'd 
Single-handu'd 
Sound of one handu clapping, the
Take my handu, I'm a stranger in paradise 
Three-handu'd cribbage 
Upper Handu 
Wash your handus!
X handu tattoo 
You're in safe handus
Zoo handuler

"Once days grow less..." A Final Four: Lines From A L=a=n=g=u=a=g=e Poet

  

O      N      C    E  

D      A     Y     S 

G      R    O     W

L      E     S      S 

T      H     A     N

L      O     N     G,   



W     H     O’    D

M     A      K     E 

T      H      E     M  

E      A     C     H

M     O     R     E  

F      U     L      L



N      E     E     D 

K      N    O     W 

W     H    A     T

W     O    R     D, 

W     H    A     T 

S      O    N     G, 



W     E     L     L

S      U    N     G,

N      E    T     S 

T       I    M     E

L      E    S     S

N     U     L     L

Liebling des Schöpfers; or, Oh My Gott!: A Nonsense Alphabet

What is The Author Of All Creation's absolutely most favorite… 
…advertising slogan?                                                             “Gott milk?"
…Billie Holiday record?                        “I Gott a Right (to Sing the Blues).”
…classic automobile?                                                           The BuGotti.
…Dickens character?                                                       Ham PegGotty.
…esoteric language?                                                      Thieves’ arGott.
…fungus fruiting structure?                                          ErGott sclerotium.
…Gene Kelly movie line?                                                  “Gotta dance!”
…heavyweight boxing title holder?                             Jersey Joe WalGott.
…imaginary location?                                                    McElliGott’s Pool.
…journalist’s interview tactic?                                 The Gottcha question.
…king of rhumba?                                                            Xavier CuGott.  
…Lois Lane portrayer?                                                     MarGott Kidder.
…movie tough guy?                                                    Humphrey BoGott.
…nougat reimagining?                                                               NouGott.
…O’Neill drama?                                          "A Moon for the MisbeGotten."
…Portuguese “thankyou”?                                                       “ObriGotto.”
…quintessential Italian double reed bass clef woodwind?         The FaGotto.
…ripe fruit?                                                                        The ApriGott.
…second-act opening musical number?                       The AsGott Gavotte.
…tourist destination?                                            Florida's EpGott Center.
…university town?                                                                   Gottingen. 

…Vincent De Paul namesake?                                         Vincent van Gott.
…weight-loss fad?                                                           Fat-free yoGott.
…xyloform?                                                                        WainsGotting. 
...ye’elimite portable form?                                                     The InGott. 
…'ziggurat' misspelling?                                                         'ZigG(ur)ott.'

"Once ferrets prove carrots..." What Shall We Do Once Bob's Probe Proves It's True: Proposals & A Poll

Once ferrets prove carrots, we'll dice each brash rascal
and toss 'em in salads with radish and Pascal.
Once carrots prove parrots, we'll teach each bright bird
to recite Shakespeare sonnets she's learnt word for word.

Once parrots prove clarets, we'll bottle 'em so
they sagaciously age till they're vintage Bordeaux!
Once clarets prove Jarretts, (a Val'rie, a Keith),
we'll warn 'em: "Atop the bus; never beneath."

Once Jarretts prove Barretts -- Elizabeth, say --
we'll host sojourns haut in our cabriolet.
Once Barretts prove square (it's not proven they were),
we'll announce, "We doubt nowt about aught you infer."

Once Barretts bérets prove (Note how we pronounce!),
we'll don 'em as toppers: 'roun' town how we'll flounce!
Once "berrets" prove merits (distinctions we earn),
we'll award 'em en masse: we'll have merits to burn.

Once merits prove carets for editing texts,
blue pencils we'll drop, leaving editors vexed.
Once carets prove garrets where artists might paint,
we'll lease to Da Vinci: an artist we ain't.

Once garrets prove karats for measuring gold, 
shall your Nantes or my Danvers yield twenty-four fold?
Once karats prove fer-...ah-h-h-h, but, surely, we're through.
(Though once heroes prove zeros, once leaders prove bleeders,
once Don proves a con man, then what shall we to do.)
 

"Lincoln and Mencken and God, untight..." Eugene Field Revisited

Lincoln* and Mencken** and God,*** untight, 
have book'd passage 'board Titanic II.
Honest Abe chides The Diety: "Bollocks 'sobreeity'! 
Let's all get chock-a-block, nu...?"
     * Neither Elmo the actor nor Tribich the con, but 
Abraham the POTUS.
     ** Neither August, Sr., the tobacconist nor August, Jr., 
the engineer but H.L., the journalist.
     *** Neither Allah the Muslim nor Krishna the Hindu 
but Yahweh the Jew.  

The Jehovah's all for it: "Teetot'lers deplore it, 
no doubt, though I shout, 'Have you tried it?
Let me slip you this tip. Cup to lip! Take a nip! 
'Less I'm wrong, you'll no longer deride it.'"

Now half in his cups, H.L.M. interrupts: 
"Listen, Jew! When you're through, read my two lips: 
Since we're all call'd 'ombibulous'* (which is no fib), you'll as-
sent to my bent for mint julips."**
     * One who'll drink anything alcoholic. Mencken lists 
himself in that category.
     ** Mencken voices a preference for julips over beer.

Answers God through His squint, "Though not partial to mint, 
as My Bible plugs hyssop and wormwood,
still a julip or two would go down a treat. Do 
you agree...? Si! You both, I affirm, would."


(More to come: a work in progress.)

"My dream? I tune to breaking news..." Been Shot: An Oneirology

My dream? I tune to breaking news: 
"The President's Been Shot!"
My nightmare? Same old same old. Damn! 
The President's still NOT...

Another Man of the Cloth: Henri Matissue

Early Fauve portrayed with colored paper, an art material 
the potential of which he mastered late in his life:

Henri Matissue

was created with black and blue chemical markers,

surrounded by red tissue paper, 

drawn and glued onto stretched canvas

attached to pine frame

16" x 20"

"Curly, Moe; Larry, Shemp: all devolved to room temp..." Shuffling Off Our Mortal Coil; or, What Say Let's Live Forever!: A Constrained Nonsense Necrologue

Curly, Moe; Larry, Shemp: all devolved to room temp.
Sharp cartoonist Thom Nast wound up breathing his last.

Colin’s grandfather Firth has departed this earth
When shall we – you 'n' me -- shuffle off this m. c.?

Codicology's Morse rides – behold! – a pale horse.
Culture icon Joan Quarm, late last year, bought the farm.
Mogul Friedrich (“Fritz”) Krupp found his number was up.
When shall we – you 'n' me -- shuffle off this m. c.?

Poet John Albert Macy’s now pushing up daisies.
One Solomon Phipps fin’lly cashed in his chips.
Mr. Morrison Waite simply slid off the plate. 
When shall we – you 'n' me -- shuffle off this m. c.? 

All (well: most) of the Bysshes now sleep with the fishes.
St. Christopher Wade? Made to drink the Kool aid.
Herr Hermanus van’t Hoff softly exited off.
When shall we – you 'n' me -- shuffle off this m. c.? 

Jazz fervent Rudi Blesh went the way of all flesh. 
Ms. Elizabeth Baker en fin met her maker.
Li’l Abner’s Al Capp took a final dirt nap.
When shall we – you 'n' me -- shuffle off this m. c.?

Couple Carl and Blanche Jost gravely gave up the ghost.
Poet Julia Ward Howe waved, then took her last bow.
Joseph Smith and his wives? All of them lost their lives.
When shall we – you 'n' me -- shuffle off this m. c.?

Far-right-winger John Birch leaned, then fell off his perch.
Charles Caldwell McCabe? In the bosom of Abe. 
Both E. and K Wynn (dad and son) packed it in.
When shall we – you 'n' me -- shuffle off this m. c.? 

Rufus, Tom and John Choates all donned pine overcoats.
Kicked the bucket did Boggs: popped (did Samu'l) his clogs.
Even "Prosp" Merimee, in the end, passed away.
Still, we'll not say, "Amen!" till we're five score and ten! 

"So: who -- Lord forfend! -- pinned the Palin on Don Qui...?" Remembering Quixote, Warts & All: A Maverick Take (A Tenth -- the Tin One! -- Anniversary Waltz for September 3rd)

The good man may sometimes do the deed deemed less than good. Recently there died one such good man. A quality demonstrating his goodness? He refused to lie to himself about misdeeds he'd done. On September 3, 2008 -- ten years ago almost exactly -- Sarah Palin accepted nomination as John McCain's running mate, he and the GOP having bypassed Pawlenty, Romney, Crist, Jindal, Lieberman and others in favor of Mrs. P. 

Remembering Quixote, Warts & All: A Maverick Take

So: who -- Lord forfend! -- pinn'd the Palin on Don Qui?
But who -- some fine friend! -- pinn'd the Palin on Don Qui?

Republican pols smell'd political dawn. Key

to win? Pick as Veep not some male grey-maned honky.

So: who, 'round the bend, pinn'd the Palin on Don Qui? 
But who, not yet Zen'd, pinn'd the Palin on Don Qui? 

The Pachyderm long'd for a candidate wonky:

“No green nominee’ll help Mac hobble the Donkey.”

So: who (may we mend!) pinn'd the Palin on Don Qui?

But who, in the end, pinn'd the Palin on Don Qui? 
‘Twas you, John, who sounded the gong in the wrong key.

The Palin you pinn'd on your own coattails, Don Qui!

(A good man, McCain: upon hearing this song, he
will own to its truth. 'Tis what makes him our Don Qui.) 

Presidential candidate McCain shown circa September, 2008 

having just pinned one from a selection of Palin buttons near his lapel.

(Dimensional illustration by the author.)