Homagee Jon Agee in Thirteen Imagees

(Not appearing among the images below are
ones portraying e. e. jango the modernist poet 
and E. J. Genoa the artisanal butcher. For verses
celebrating those Agees along with all the Agee 
incarnations you do see here, scroll back through 
the archive a week or so ago and check out the 
post entitled "Homagee Jon." 

Kilroylentless Konjugular

O 
O!
Oh!
Oy!
OK.
Koi!
Roy!
Okay.
K’roy?
Killroy
Killjoy
Kill goy!
Kill Roy?
Kill droid!
Kill’d: Roy
Skill’d Roy.
Here, Kilroy!
Kilroy’s here.
Kilroy? Here?
Kilroy is here.
Kilroy’s here?
Kilroy be here.
Kilroy...? Here.
Ljmspz xbt ifsf.
Kilroy was here.
Hilroy was kere.
Kilroy was here.
Yorlik saw ereh. 
Here was Kilroy.
Kilroys were here.
He-e-ere’s Kilroy!
’Twas Kilroy here.
Kilroy’s been here.
Kilroy will be here.
Kilroy may be here.
Killroy shall be here.
Kilroy must be here.
Kilroy could be here.
Kilroy might be here.
Kilroy has been here.
Kilroy was kill'd, Roy.
If Kilroy were here…
Was not Kilroy here?
Kilroy had been here.
Kilroy was to be here.
Kilroy should be here.
Was Kilroy ever here?
Were only Kilroy here…
Ilroykay uzway eerhay.
Kill Roy. (But not here.)
If only Kilroy were here.
There once was a Kilroy...
Kilroy is about to be here.
Kilroy will have been here.
Kilroy is to have been here.
Kilroy may have been here.
Kilroy shall have been here.
Would that Kilroy were here.
Kilroy could have been here.
Kilroy might have been here.
Kilroy would have been here.
Would that Kilroy’d been here.
Kilroy was to have been here.
Kilroy should have been here.
Kilroy ought to have been here.
Kilroy may be about to be here.
Would that Kilroy could be here.
Would that Kilroy had been here.
Kilroy is about to have been here.
Kilroy will have to have been here.
Will Kilroy have to have been here?
Kilroy should have to have been here.
Kilroy will be about to have been here.
Kilroy may be about to have been here.
Kilroy shall be about to have been here.
Would that Kilroy could have been here.
Kilroy coulda woulda shoulda been here.
Kilroy should be about to have been here.  
Kilroy should have been about to be here.
Should Kilroy be about to have been here?
Kilroy would have been about to be here but...
Kilroy should have been about to have been here.
Kilroy shall have to have been about to have been here.
Was Kilroy not said to have been about to have been here?
Would that Kilroy should have to have been about to have been here…

                      What’s that? You say Kilroy wasn't here…?

Frag Rags: Beaux Esprits with Letters Three

In case you're currently in short 
supply, here are several bits of 
nonsense doggeriff prompted by 
twenty-six three-letter abecedarial 
sequences.

Two tricot-knit-
ted lab coats sit
in stacks of fit-
ty-three.
(Conceived in 9
BC divine, 
I'm fine: malign
not me.)

‘Tis time, Big Mac:

define exac-
tly what’s in back
of ‘pure’!
Define right now
(does Ron know how...?)
what's meant by 'cow
de jure.'

Most songs she’s left
in clef G. Clef'd 
in B...? Bereft
of fun! 
“Tonight,” she boasts,
“I’ll frighten ghosts,
if ghosts bi-coast-
al run.”

My pencil sketch-

es baksheesh fetch,
though ink's no stretch 
for many.
(Sell hot pants...? Not
New Delhi…? Jodh-
pur dealers' lot...?
Not any.)

“Is she a fake...?”
they howl. “Si! J.

K. Rowling ain't 
her name.”
(‘Tain’t no mirage:
at home, she’s ‘Taj.’ 
J. K. loves hajj. 
She's game.)

Though Royal Dutch,

the common touch
is “air’d” by K
LM.
Each flight...? Most calm –
no “flying bomb.”
(I love to fly
with them.)

Try kosher Spam –

no pork, no ham.
Delish...? You bet
your glans!
No ham! No pork!
Just grab your fork!
(It comes in one-
pound cans.)

Quranic scho-

lar Samar’s hol-
ler: “Stop! 'Q’ran'’s in-
correct!
Do not ‘u’s drop! 
Q: who’ll stop
you...? I shall. (What’s
your sect...?))"

And have you heard

this Scrabble word:
‘suq’...? ‘R’s not in
this mot.
Still, rules there be.
The best...? Let's see:
stick, nerds, to words
you know...?

The Duke of York’s

odd love of storks
makes clear which dork’s
turn’d queer.
Still, storks in si-
tu voted three
to one to flee 
the dear.

Now's Sarge's* turn
to chitchat churn
and thereby learn
from betters
which stuff disturbs
in situ verbs
and adds fresh herbs
to letters. 

This plea’s for you,
VW
detailer. My 
fixation...?
A peacock-blue
VW
x-rated dec-
oration.

Nobody owns

sitars with drones.
Now, xylophones
are trendy.
Who knows what’s next!
Perhaps a sex-
y zither’s mode
vivendi.

Some jazz is Thai

(I can’t think why).
Zaire sports jazz
bands, too.
And Paris has
its Hot Le Jazz,
a blend of old
with new.

     * Sgt. N. ("Jim") Smithe-Magee 
(the N stands for 'Nonsense.')

Exiliterateurs; Or. Get Out!

W(ystan) H(ugh) Auden!
His gist...? To embroaden
his listing of homo-erotical 
mates.
So Wyst trysts: “Ta, UK! Ah-ha-a-aah: 48 
states!”

James Art’ur Baldwin
blames Harlem (“’T’sno Walden!”),
claims Paris as home. James, we wish you “bone 
chance!”
as you emigrate (ooh-la-la!) to (la-la!) 
France.

Joseph Conrad,
early on, had
shipp’d for shores foreign o’er oceans 
exotic,
thus aug’ring Joe’s heroes’ endeavors 
aquatic.

Dante!
Why can’t he
lie low in his most-favor’d 
nest (Florence)...?
‘Cuz revenge-fill’d Black Guelphs post ar-
rest warrants.

T(homas) S(tearns) Eliot
bagg'd a Nobel. He at-
tain’d, more’s the pit, British citizen-
ship.
Critics (Kenner, for one) think Tom’s “Cool (as a) 
Whip.”

F. Scott Fitzgerald,
l’hot Jazz Age’s herald,
logs too many knights on the French Rivi-
era,
though just as straight Yank, he, as L. “Yogi” 
Berra.
(Wait, wait! We’ve swapp’d ‘F’s: for F. Scott, F. O’-
Hara!)

Wave to Rob Graves!
Robert’s writing rates raves,
of which wit most be writ on the isle of Ma-
jorca.
To hear his wives tell it. Bob’s short of ka-
vorka.
(Wait, wait! We've switch’d Graves with F. Garcia 
Lorca.)

Heil, Heinrich Heine!
(Hein’s no Freund of meine.)
“Du sagst mir Heimlich ein leises 
Wort
Ich wach auf, (ya!) und der Strauss ist 
fort.”
(Or, “Breathe in me shell-like da secretive 
woid.
I awake, but it’s gone: da chimera, she’s 
bloid.”)

Eugene Ionesco
digs scenics al fresco.
Gene’s change of address, from Slatina to 
Paris,
occasions his dramas’ deft “noms de la 
terrace.”
(“The Chairs” isn’t one, but “A Stroll in the 
Air” is.) 

Will Dublin’s James Joyce
err in finding a voice
there in Erin...? (One he’ll pot while in Rome, one in 
Brest,
although Zurich’s the spot where Jim’s tongue’s laid to 
rest.)

Hear that wretch Milan Kundera
kvetch: “Living under a
Czechoslovakian rule’s 
far from fun.”
(Milan’s migrated westward by late 
’81.)

So swore D. H. Lawrence,
so tortur’d ‘neath torrents
of World War I Britain’s belligerent 
ways:
“I’ll embark on a ‘pilgrimage savage.’” (His 
phrase.)

Mein Herr Thomas Mann,
raining cat-calls upon
Adolf Hitler and ‘dolf’s diabolical 
band,
quits the Reichstag. (Herr’s splitting for Schwyz: Switzer-
land!)

IgNobelist Naipaul,
the novelist I call
Sir Bloody V(idiadhar) S(irajpra-
sad),
call'd Tobago his home. (Or was that Trini-
dad...?)

Ovid (P. Naso),
whose odic sargasso –
Remed’ Amores, Metamorphoses, Ars Amatori-
a, Fasti
(plus “gaffes”) get Nas banish’d. (Whatever his “errors,” they’re bound to’ve
been ”Nas”ty.)

Petrarch (Petrarca)
post donning his parka,
ascends Mt. Ventoux, though the first to its summit he’s 
not,
nor is Petrarch an exile; this Itie just “iters” a 
lot.

Horacio Quiroga
hails not from Shimoga
but Salto in Uruguay (bred there 
to boot),
though it’s Buenos Aires’ans who boost his 
repute.

Salman Rushdie
eschews being shush’d. He
was born in Mumbai, better known as Bom-
bay.
Fatwas, filed, fail’d to find him, although one yet 
may.

Percy Bysshe Shelley’s
best pals all will tell: “He’s
more partial to straying than staying at 
home.”
Bysshe is batty 'bout ‘bye,’ ‘ciao,’ ‘adieu’ and ‘sha-
lom.’

Thucidides!
Admitted: he’s
no wa-a-ay just your garden-variety, Athens-born mine owner, exiled 
unfairly.
Thuci’s War in the Peloponnesus remains fundamental, though read all 
too rarely.

Unamuno!
Spain’s jejune “No
Turnos” coup ships M. de U to off-beat-track Canary 
Isles.
Today, such round-trips, via France, would earn big frequent-flyer 
miles.

Monsieur Voltaire
in exile’s aware:
a star’s mononymity ramps up his 
fame:
Liberace, Cantinflas, Moliere, Tintoretto, Machito, Madon-...ah: that’s what’s in a name!

Oscar Wilde,
who pedophiled
and was judg’d to have sinn’d, was from Britain de-isled after 24 months in an old Reading 
gaol.
[Note: the sprite who once grinn’d on his tomb has been filed, losing formerly
full genetalia 
(male).]

Xenophon,
exiled upon
a damning discov’ry (he’d fought for the 
Spartans!)
starts humming: “Ennui! That’s the part that dis-
heartens.”

Yevtushenko
censures, then co-
operates with Russian politbureaucratic 
folk.
Is he in exile...? Nope, although he does reside in Tulsa, 
OK!

Stefan Zweig! A-
djourns he my ga-
zette of pan-global exilit’ra-
teurs.
You’d dis mine...? Where (for clerihew’s sake) reside 
yours...?

Ev'ryone's '-ster'ing. (Gott! Even der Maus...?)

Auster pens novels, pure post-modern stuff.
Bluster of Doodyville’s grumpy ‘n’ gruff.
Custer claims fame for just taking a stand
Dumpsters…? Where half of the planet’s foods land.

Easter: “He’s risen!” Let’s color some eggs.

Forster: his novels, as film scripts, have legs.
Gloucester: Lear’s sidekick is Edmund’s old dad.
Hester (Ms. Prynne)…? One more good gal gone bad.

Ister (that’s Aethicus Ister to you)

sashays through the Cosmographia. (Who knew…?)
Hieronymus author’d this erudite coup.
The Court Jester jaws about “brew that is true.”

Kapellmeisters’ keisters grow fat (all that sittin’).

Lester of Leicester with lobster is smitten.
Munster’s a monster, though Fred Gwynne is not.
Nor’easters…? They blow up the East Coast…a lot.

‘Oldster’ is shorthand for – si! -- senior cit.

Pollster: she’ll pick your brain – if but a bit.
Quaester (sic): Roman appointee (misspell’d).
Rochester…? Man Friday. (Benny’s excell’d.)

Sylvester Stallone plays a sinister sheister.

Twister: a cyclone. (Twinn’d twisters…? A “twice”ster.)
Ulster: the scene of some Irish dissension.
Vester…? “Of you” (Latin, second declension).

Worcester: the home of Quinsigamond School.

Xyster: guitarfish. Or surgical tool.
Youngster: some kid who’s inventive though tiny.
Zoroaster…? Composer of Gathas, in fine.

Even Odder Couples

Ara and Demarco book a bedsit B&B: 
     "…just our 
digs where's done ‘development and research’..." -- Ar ‘n’ Dee.

Beauregard and Arabelle, transcend our loveless era, 
     and suc-
cumb to Cupid's darts and shafts, becoming Beau ‘n’ Ara.

     Cal-
lista and her Derwood were invitees. (We say 'were' 
     because both
fail’d to show -- or did we fail to check our Cal ‘n’ Der?)

Deborah and Aaron, one sophisticated pair, 
     are known by
other debonaire young things as "raw-ther...Deb ‘n’ Aar."

Ebenezer flips for Florence. Fickle Florence, though, 
     runs hot and
cold. Those indecisive lovers! Call 'em 'Eb ‘n’ Flo.'

Frieda pulls, with Ethan Zane, some stunts which leave us queasy. 
     They’re so
breezy – “c'est la vie”zy. E’er so free be Frie ‘n’ E.Z.!

     Grin-
elda and Barretto keep a bird. Repeats this parrot,
     "I'll de-
file thy domicile." (Just grin and bear it, Grin ‘n’ Barrett'!)

Hamnet, a polygamist, weds twice. (Both brides prove nags. 
    And, oddly,
both were christened 'Agatha.') Meet (don't eat!): Ham ‘n’ Ags.

Wendell's pledg’d, "I'd bed Iphigenia." Ah, but then, 
     Iph vows, "That's
only if and when we've said 'I do!'...as Iph ‘n’ Wen."

Justin and Tymothea,were decades past their prime. 
     The knot they
tied. Then up and died. (The two became one: Just ‘n’ Tyme.)

Kahtia weds Pickering, but soft...our plot grows thicker.
     'Tain’t no
joke! A yoke of twins is born -- a little Kaht' ‘n’ Picker.'

     To
Lemuel and Adrienne, two drys, our toast is made. 
     "Charge your
flutes, good friends, with lemonade. All fill’d...? To Lem ‘n’ Ade!"

Morris and Ramona: how their ardors overflow! 
     "I love you,
Mo!" "I love you, 'Mo'!" (Love mo' and mo' do Mo ‘n’ 'Mo'.)

Nehemiah and Tonette their calisthenics know: 
     "Hey, Neh'! Hey,
To'e! Please do that one call’d 'Head 'n' shoulder, knee 'n' toe'!"

Booker idolizes Oprah...sinker, line 'n' hook! 
     We trust Ms. 
Oprah feels the same. They read just like an Ope ‘n’ Book.

Phillip and d'Blanca's hope to win the sweepstakes sank 
     because that
pair, Phil ‘n’ d'Blanc', forgot to -- first! -- "fill in de blank!"

Qisma and Telemachus: their book is selling well. 
     It’s titled
"Life Among the Gay: a Kiss and Tell" -- by Qis ‘n’ Tel. 

     'Tis
Rodney versus Helen: neither wishes t'other well. 
     Says Rod to 
Helen (as does Hel to Rod): "Your ass can rot in hell!"

Samuel and Rose, raw fish aficionados, know: 
     wasabi's 
"no-no" with your salmon roe. "Banzai!" shout Sam ‘n’ Ro.

     I question’d
Ahmet Ree and Trigve: "What be '2ab cos C'...?" 
     "Why, that's just
simple trigonometry," said Trig ‘n’ Ahmet Ree!

"Upton and his Atamantha," notes our latest datum,  
     "both have
chosen to keep dozin.'" Up 'n' at 'em, Up' ‘n’ Atam'! 

(a work in progress) 

Vergil and Bertha / virgin birth / Virg ‘n’ Berth.

Watson and Helen / Wat' 'n' Hel' / "What in hell...?”

Xavier and Grace / savin' grace / Xav' ‘n’ Grace

Yasser and Deedee / "Yass, indeed!" / Yas’ ‘n’ Deed’

     Ter-
resa said to Zedediah, "I wouldst have 'em bury
     us as 
one: "Here lies the very sedentary Zed' ‘n’ Terri."

Eschatology or 'Last' Things: a Semantically Sound Sound Poem

Action Hero. Boy Scout. (Fine.)
Chance Saloon. My Duchess. (Mine!)
Exit (which?) to Brooklyn. (‘Hood.)
Full measure of devotion. (Blood.)

Gasp. The House. (Where?) On the Left.

Ice Age. Judgement. (Pray it’s deft.)
King of Scotland.  Leaf.  Mohican.
Name. Of Sheila. (Hey! No peekin’!)

Picture Show. The Quarter. Rites.

Supper (‘bout which Matthew writes).
Tango. (Halifax or Paris.)
Unicorn. (With elves? Oh, spare us!)

Vegas (?) Will and Testament.

The eXorcism. (Heaven-sent.)
Year at Marienbad? (Too long.)
Zulu. Done! (Or am I wrong?)

A Chorale

The Earps, with Holliday (call'd Doc) in tow
to bolster their inadequate morale,
opposed a trapezoidal UFO:
the Tonnekite at the OK Corral.

Three Earps -- that's Virgil, Morgan...Wyatt, too --
along with one Doc Holliday, their pal,
faced Dominick the Vampire. Few pull'd through.
It's the Dunnebite at the OK Corral.

Doc Holliday with Virgil, Morgan, Wyatt:
all four endured the consummate grand mal
as running sores of Attila ran riot
amid the Hunblight at the OK Corral.

The Earps ask'd ev'ry señor and señora.
They foraged but could form no rationale
for Drumpf's wall dividing Tombstone from Sonora.
Drumpf the Unbright at the OK Corral. 

Last Gasp

Life A User’s Manual A Breathing Exercise or Last Gasp

Inhaling in, out loud I shout,

“So: let’s begin.” I exhale out.
Inhaling in, I, whale-like, spout,
“Whoa! Where’ve I been?” I exhale out.

Inhaling in, through nose, through mout,’

I tuck my chin. I exhale out.
Inhaling in, I’m on about
Eve’s Adam’s sin. I exhale out.

Inhaling in, I pour a stout

then sip a gin. I exhale out.
Inhaling in, while suff’ring gout,
I bark my shin. I exhale out.

Inhaling in, I exit sout,’

a new begin-... I exhale out.
Inhaling in, what’s true I flout,
what’s false I spin. I exhale out.

Inhaling in, I read Rex Stout,

Anais Nin… I exhale out.
Inhaling in, I walkabout
the plains of Sin. I exhale out.

Inhaling in, I think about

poor Anne Boleyn. She exhal’d out.
Inhaling in, I’m Kilgore Trout.
But Rin Tin Tin's who exhales out.

Inhaling in, I ask for nowt.

Why can't I win? I exhale out.
Inhaling in: a one-round bout.
Fun though it’s been, I exhale out.

Six Xis: a Palindrome Primer

≡ ≡ ≡ ≡ ≡ ≡

See those glyphs just above, some six
letters in Greek…? Each ‘n’
ev’ry last one be a 

xi.
What you’re reading’s a text which de-
scribes ‘em as such. Are they 
xis…? You bet! Take it from
me.
But just flip the device you're now 
viewing ‘em on – be it 
laptop or tablet…or
phone –
upside down, through one hundred 'n' 
eighty degrees! (Works as 
well with a Dell stand-a-
lone.)
You’ll soon find you’ll continue to 
readily read ‘em as 
xis – and they’ll still number
six.
(Are you fond of phenomenal 
folderol, friend…? Shown be- 
low be some similar
schticks.*)

    * Such as that IX XI is but one

Latin-language designation for 9/11.
For more, continue reading.

S  W  I  M  S  

If, on whichever device you happen to be viewing the word above, you should

happen to rotate the screen 180 degrees, you’ll discover that the word appearing
just above this text will then appear exactly as it did prior to the rotation.

S  I  S

Moreover, if you once again flip your device while staring at the

word just above this text, a similar experience will ensue. In addition, 

you’ll see the word is spelt the same backwards as forwards.

My Road is Paved with Apothegms or I Know My Aphs

My road is paved with good intentions.
Whither does it lead…?
My chain can’t hide its weakest link.
Is strength still guaranteed…?
My kitchen’s made for watching pots,
but will the bastards boil…?
I read of “water ev’rywhere,”
but does it mix with oil…?

I sew a stitch. If done in time,

how many might I save…?
I’ve have no clue what miles you took.
An inch was all I gave.
The house I live in’s glass. Should I use
caution throwing stones…?
Are sticks 'n' stones like words…? Do all three
lead to broken bones…?

How distant from the apple tree

do apples tend to fall…?
If sovereign states divide in parts,
how many parts has Gaul…?
My geese all get their share of sauce.
Do ganders, too, partake…?
I have my cake. Have I, as well,
the will to eat that cake…?

Can I arrays of round holes fill

by plugging in square pegs…?
How best to calculate my chickens…?
Count my unhatch’d eggs…?
I meditate on time 'n' tide,
in hopes they’ll wait for me.
What’s there to say about the rest…?
“The rest is history”…?