I Know My Aphs (11)

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 those bad boys boil…?
I read of “water ev’rywhere,”
but does it mix with oil…?
 
I take a stitch. If done in time,
how many might it save…?
I’ve got 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 and 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 my 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 and tide,
in hopes they’ll wait for me.
What’s there to say about the rest…?
“The rest is history”…?

Mr. Knowall (11)

Drumpf loves the stars ‘n’ stripes. 

Drumpf loves ‘em, billowin' or furl'd...
Yes, Drumpf knows more about the flag
than anyone in the world.
Drumpf loves the brain. Drumpf loves the brain stem

and the frontal lobe...
Yes, Drumpf knows more about the brain
than anyone on this globe.
Drumpf loves his Christianity:
the Cross, the Virgin Birth...
Yes, Drumpf knows more about the Lord
than anyone else on earth.
Drumpf loves his mineralogy…
...loves quartz and tuff and granite...
Yes, Drumpf knows more about those rocks
than anyone on the planet.
Drumpf loves the Giant Panda bear...
...its black eyes, great paws, nose…
Yes, Drumpf knows more about those bears
than anyone in the cosmos.
Drumpf loves to lie. Drumpf loves the guile. 

Drumpf loves prevarication...
Yes, Drumpf knows less about the truth
than anyone in creation.

The Hypochondriac (Unpub)

I’ve been ass-over-teakettl'd, beat all to hell,

been collaps’d, crush’d 'n' crumpl’d...demolish’d as well.
 
I'm exhausted, enfragmented, fallin’ apart,

gone to pieces, gumm’d up, hosed. (I'm hurt to the heart.)
 
I’m injur’d, inop’rable, jackknifed ‘n’ janky,
kaput, knacker’d, k-o'd. (Please, lend me a hanky.)
 
I’m lousy 'n' limpin’. I’m muck’d, mess’d about. 

I'm nail’d, on the outs, out o’ whack. (I’m just out.)
 
I’m plumb pulverized, quash’d. I'm rack'd, ruptured 'n' rent. 

I am run-down 'n' riven. I’m screw’d up. I’m spent...
 
...topsy-turvy 'n' totally trash’d, tucker'd out, 

tango-uniform’d, unglued, unhing’d. (I’m a lout.)
 
I’ve been voided 'n' vanquish’d. I’m wither'd 'n' weak.
I've been X’d out. I’m yucky. Been zapp’d.                         
                                                               (I’m unique.)

I Can't Get Past the Hair (Past)

Hey, Gotham Town!
Who’s slinking down
that escalator stair…?
Despite his myth,
he’s short on pith.
(And what’s it with
that hair…?)
 
The umpteenth time
he blusters, “I’m
a bigly billionaire!”
I beg him, “Bro,
please let it go!”
(Be that a ‘fro…
that hair…?)
 
He pouts, “I plan
a Muslim ban.”
(Most muse, “He can-
not dare.”)
Awhile he’ll stew,
not think it through,
and then shampoo
his hair.)
 
His twitter feed…?
Misogyny’d.
Chauvin'd…? Indeed,
he’s there.
Perhaps he can’t
control his rant.
(What…? Plug-implant-
ed hair…?)
 
Of tax returns
a show he spurns.
(He never learns
to share.)
The man is ill,
a psycho. (Still…
that’s one weird hill…
of hair.)
 
He’s “crim’nally
uncurious,” Mark
Shields reveals
on air.
Perhaps he is.
If so, his biz.
(Do stylists frizz
that hair…?)
 
Gals...? Grabs he (gads!)
their p words -- adds,
“they let you, lads,
nor care.”
Does ‘Vanka blink…?
Does ‘Vanka wink…?
(Does ‘Vanka think
that’s hair…?)
 
The handicapp’d
he mock’d. Rubes clapp’d.
And Congress napp’d.
His par-
ry…?.“Never did!
Me…? God forbid!”
(The man’s pure id…
cum hair.)
 
Him…? Navigate
a ship of state…?
We’ll all catch hate-
de-mer.
He lacks all skill
for steering. (Still,
I’m in…until
the hair.)
 
Into each room
he roams…? Ka-boom!
He sucks up
all the air.
Narcissus-like
he grabs each mic.
(Do people like
that hair…?)
 
Who sang at Don’s
inaug’ral…? B’yon-
ce…? Bono…? John…?
Did Cher…?
No stars came out.
‘Twas all about
(no doubt) that sprout
of hair.
 
In thrall to lies,
he falsifies.
He fails at Truth
or Dare.
His fibs ‘n’ guiles
extend…for miles.
(Who reconciles
that hair…?)
 
He made a vow
to disallow
Barack’s Obama-
care.
Perhaps he will.
(Most hope not.) Still…
I’ve had my fill
of Herr.
 
He now eschews
grand South Lawn views,
prefers to choose
his lair.
At Mar-a-Lago
stay! Okay…? (Say…
is that hay...
or hair…?)
 
His border wall…?
In dead free fall.
(He specs expects
to pare.)
Claims he: “Some folks
don’t get my jokes.”
(Then Fallon pokes
his hair.)
 
The Press…? It’s dead:
He tweets instead.
The man’s a head-
case rare,
each twitter feed
a bitter screed.
(He is, indeed,
all hair.)
 
To pay his lenders…?
God forfend! Here’s
him: “Zut! C’est la
guerre!”
Then writes ‘em off.
Then cheats…at golf!!
(Still…what God-awf-
ul hair!)
 
Attache’s ears
Attacked…? State fear’s
that Cuba spears
their share.
Did foreign thugs
deploy those bugs…?
(Ill-fitting rugs
ain’t hair.)
 
Aside from ISIS --
still a crisis --
name one vice he’d
pare…?
Prescription drugs…?
“So sad,” he shrugs.
(Hey! Are those plugs
you wear…?)
 
So: will this worm
serve out his term…?
Will White House germs
he bear…?
His overreach
incites: “Impeach!”
(Say! Does he bleach
that hair…?)
 
Perhaps he’ll die
in office. I
to heaven ply
that prayer.
I do believe
that’s how he’ll leave.
(Is that a weave…
that hair…?)
 
So: what’s the poop…?
A wig…? A toup…?
What’s goin’ on
up there…?
Still, notwithstanding
all his lies,
the made-up guff
that liar plies...

...despite the hates
each tweet creates,
the myths with which
his base he baits,
although the cat’s
an autocrat
(and certainly
no diplomat)...

...and yet, in spite
of all of that,
I can’t get past
that hair…I still
cannot get past
that hair!

I Get 'Em Confused (Unpub)

Barney Frank and Bernie Sanders…?
One’s a crank and one meanders.
Both loathe drama – Shaw’s, Menender’s.
Bernie Frank and Barney Sanders.
 
Barnie Fracken; Burney Sand.
The one burns bright; the other's bland.
And both (please don’t misunderstand)
are li’ble to get out of hand.
 
Sandor Frankel; Barnhard Burns.
The first backs burial in urns
and plumps for stuff the second spurns.
They both would teach, though neither learns.
 
Sandy Frankburne, barberer --
in former life an arborer –
is now of thieves a harborer…
(And sand, of course, is far from fur.)
 
Sandra Bernhard; Binnie Barnes.
One unravels; t’other darns –
and neither gathers into barns.
(But aren’t y'all list’ners sick o' yarns…?)

Is Ellen Barkin'...? (Unpub)

Oliver’s hearty.
(Was Eliott ghoul’d…?)
They say Ben was blue.
Orville…? Wilbur…? Both right…?
As for Jeanne: D’Arc…and light,
while Olivia’s wild.
Oscar…? Wild as well. Barney…? Frank.
(Barry’s not white.)
 
Betty’s white. Joel is grey.
Went Felicia too far…?
With whom’s Debra been messing…?
(I know Roslyn’s kind.)
People ask, “Will Jim back us…?”
Dame May…? Always witty.
That Jack was no lemon
most researchers find.
 
Immanuel can’t,
though I'm promised James can.
We’ve seen Christopher walkin,’
and PDQ’s back.
Plus, I'm told that George went,
and that Kevin’s still spacey.
(Proactive celebrities…?
Never a lack.)
 
We’re sure Ron’s not silver.
(Was Lorne ever green…?)
John and William both hurt.
I can see Sharon’s small.
Irene…? Done. Edna…? Best.
But how crabby was Buster…?
How wooly was Monte…?
(Lucille was no ball.)
 
Natalie would,
although Coach Morgan wouldn.’
Michael J….? Foxy!
Was David not lean…?
As for Grange, Grooms and
Schoendienst…not one of ‘em’s red.
And I think Pink is pink…
if you know what I mean.
 
Cesar’s frank, Kwami’s brown,
although Dawn isn’t French.
Jack and Lewis aren’t black,
either. Who says George burns...?
We know Judith’s not light.
Folks claim Buddy was rich,
and I’m sure Fred was friendly…
But now it’s your turn.

Accounting Rhyme (Unpub)

One, two; one two!
What can one do…?
Have you no clue…?
     Three, four; three, four!
So: what’s it for…?
Can less be more…?
     Five, six; five, six!
Who plays such tricks…?
Who takes the licks…?
     Sev’n, eight; sev’n, eight!
Procrastinate…?
How long’s the wait…?

     Nine, ten; nine ten!

That...? Done! There...? Been! 

Remember when...?

     Ten, nine: ten, nine!

So: why the whine...?

Please give some sign! 

     Eight, seven; eight, seven!
Why’s vita so brev’ …? ‘N’
why wait must heaven…?
     Six, five; six, five.
Call this alive…?
When’s help arrive…?
     Four, three; four, three.
What’s with “To be…?”
Is it just me…?
     Two, one; two, one.  
Who’s having fun…?
What’s getting done…?
     Two, four; six, eight;
sev’n, five; three, one!
You call this fun…?
     Is aught e’er done…?
Is aught e’er done…?
Is aught e’er done…?

Read Me, Reaper! (Unpub)

Read me, Reaper, what's ahead
"...in the buttons, in the bread..."
Wasted weekends at Club Med…?
(Boss: “You loss of pay must dread.”)
     O Death: you've done in Uncle Ed.
You've closed the lid on Cousin Fred.
You've shrouded Mrs. Gotobed.
(I can't drive Dilys from my head.)
 
Feed me, Reaper, as foresaid --
from "...ultravi- to infrared..." --
who've laid to rest Great-grandpa Jed, 
the King of Kenya, known as "Khed" 
(‘tis said Khed's worth his weight in lead)
who never left the Murphy bed
he lay on as a newlywed. Khed 
died as lived he: overfed.) 

Speed me, Reaper: please to shed
your ploy to "...’stroy my ‘oysterbed’"
with Inja ink (no pencil lead...?) 
injected by some quadruped
or biped (a Rhode Island Red…?) 
incorporating Sudafed
black-marketed through Cousin Ted…?
 
Heed me! Como ‘sta Usted…?
What shade’s your thread…? Venetian red…?
Are color’d threads like yours widespread…?
Do X-mark’d spots show where they’ve bled…?
I’d love to hear what all’s been said,
but hear it I'd from you instead...
so: read me, Reaper, talking head,
from top to toe, from A to Zed!

Imagine Girls (Unpub)

Imagine girls --
invented Pearls,
Malvinas, Merles
and Mallorys --
who come, then quick-
ly go, through Mich-
elangelo-
hung galleries.
    None nun nor crone,
each one has grown
(their lungs alone
weigh calories)
so flush that they’ve,
though blushing, waiv’d
all wages – tips
and salaries.

It's Hot or Doggerel Days (Unpub)

     (8/1)
It’s hot! (Tres hot: 
luke warm it's not.) 
Ann Miller got 
it: "...too darn hot!"
 
     (8/2)
Da's AC's shot.
Ma's…? Gone to pot. 
Cole Porter'd jot 
it: "...too darn hot!"
 
     (8/3)
It's hot! (Think not…? 
Ya'll don't know squat.)
So-o-o-o hot one's snot 
tends not to clot.
 
     (8/4)
One's nose approx-
imates a Brät, 
while lucid thoughts 
turn most exot-
 
     (8/5)
-ic: dream scenes fraught 
with Lancelot 
and Ladies of 
Shalott, Mahat-
 
     (8/6)
-ma Gandhi, An-
dy Kohut, Lot-
te Lenya, di-
va Montserrat
 
     (8/7)
Caballé, sheiks 
who reek of rot-
ten leeks in oil
of Bergamot,
 
     (8/8)
or Benoit
B. Mandelbrot 
(whose fractal "aht" 
I like a lot).
 
     (8/9)
Be you quadru-
ple bi-pass’d tot; 
be you the Hoo-
ple or the Mott;
 
     (8/10)
don pinstripe, check 
or polka dot; 
inhab McMansh 
or vacant lot;
 
     (8/11)
prefer weak tea 
or pepper pot 
(if tea, ami, 
that says a lot);
 
     (8/12)
be sri or sultan, 
late of Swat, 
prefer straight lace 
or gordian knot;
 
     (8/13)
be you robot-
ic or karat-
e maven -- you
may need a shot --
 
     (8/14)
if not, at least 
some bottled wat'... 
("Of what…?" you quer-
-y.) Water, twat!
 
     (8/15)
("Oo-o-o-oops! Just the flu-
id I'd forgot.") 
Who's else is hot 
(though Turandot...
 
     (8/16)
is not)…? Why, Rob-
ert Falcon Scott 
of the Antarc-
tic: "...'Sbloody hot!"
 
     (8/17)
Who else is hot…?
Hell's Margey Schott, 
pro-Nazi sot: 
"Mein Gott! Ich's hot!"
 
     (8/18)
(Who else is hot…? 
Anwar Sadat.) 
My cot, though in
a shady spot,
 
     (8/19)
feels, lately, like
a lobster pot: 
it makes me wish 
I'd got a yacht...
 
     (8/20)
or could lay hands 
on your garrotte. 
At least, thank god,
I  need not trot...
 
     (8/21)
(tho' true, I do, 
more oft than not). 
But why's it hot? 
Have you forgot?
 
     (8/22)
 America's 
a "melting pot." 
In any case, 
there lies this spot --
 
     (8/23)
it’s but a blot, 
a teensy dot – 
a beauty spot quite 
comely…? Not!) --
 
     (8/24)
upon die Son-
ne...done! It's hot. 
(Or, like as not, 
some knotty plot...
 
     (8/25)
of Aeroflot's,
or, p'rhaps, Pol Pot's.) 
Kool-Aid, it's said's, 
verboten: "...Dot-
 
     (8/26)
-dot-dot-dash-dash-
dash-dot-dot-dot..."* 
Yet, 'til the Trane
Man states he's got...
 
     * Mr. Morse's code for 'S.O.S.'
 
     (8/27)
our S.O.S, it's 
still hot, wot! 
Some cooler spot 
to plant one's "bott"…?
 
     (8/28)
You'll find no tit-
tle -- not one jot. 
Say...is it me 
or is it not...
 
     (8/29)
just that much hot-
ter since I sta't-
ed jotting
this Ode De Hot…?
 
     (8/30)
It's hot! So what…? 
There's simply "not-“
hing to be done...
but kvetch alot.
 
     (8/31)
Cole got it right: 
It’s too darn hot. 
(Ol' Cole's a rot-
ter: too damn hot!)
 
     (9/1)
How's 'bout some cool 
September song…? 
(September In The 
Rain’s not long.