Thursday, August 10, 2017

Beep beep

Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote Redux


BRIDGEWATER, N.J. — President Trump threatened on Tuesday to unleash “fire and fury” against North Korea if it endangered the United States, as tensions with the isolated and impoverished nuclear-armed state escalated into perhaps the most serious foreign policy challenge yet of his administration.

Undaunted, North Korea warned several hours later that it was considering a strike that would create “an enveloping fire” around Guam, the western Pacific island where the United States operates a critical Air Force base. In recent months, American strategic bombers from Guam’s Andersen Air Force Base have flown over the Korean Peninsula in a show of force.

President Trump, speaking from the rough along the 11th fairway at his New Jersey golf club, mispronounced Guam, rhyming it with spam.  “I’ve got deals for first class hotels in Qatar and Manila.  Why would I care about a hellhole called Gam?  Speaking of gam’s, Ivanka has a terrific pair.  I’m just saying.”   

North Korea scoffed, suggesting that Lady Gaga alone had legs that could incite a glorious and fiery victory over the imperialist lackey dogs, adding they “wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eating kimchi.”

Tensions mounting, President Trump, speaking in the club house between bites of very well done ribeye steak smothered in ketchup, said “I’ve got Mexican busboys smarter than North Korea, okay?”, adding, “Smoke on the water, a fire in the sky.  That’s from the Book of Revelation.  You can look it up.”

Within minutes North Korea retaliated with a link to a YouTube clip from “Godzilla vs. Hedorah”, stating “we will stomp on your low budget miniature cardboard buildings and breath hot monster fire on the false front of your capitalist roader skyline.”

White House spokeswoman Sarah Huckabee Sanders retorted that King Kong could “clean Godzilla’s clock any day”, adding that the giant gorilla is “a New Yorker from Queens with the brass to make it in Manhattan.”   Huckabee Sanders criticized coverage of the President’s mispronunciation of Guam as “fake news”, and “very unfair” before stating that “by this time tomorrow, Pyongyang will look like a plate of blackened tilapia.”     

Kim Jong-un set fire to an effigy of President Trump in Kim Il Sung Square in Pyongyang.  The fifty foot tall sherbet colored paper mache figure featured a red forty-five foot long tie and was claimed by the North Korean defense minister to be topped with over five thousand cans of orange Silly String.  Kim, putting a fine point on his provocation, fired a 155 mm artillery round into the melting crotch of the flaming effigy. 

President Trump, speaking from the driving range at his New Jersey golf club, defended a caricature of Kim Jong-un emblazoned on every range ball.  Critics complained the cartoon, a yellow figure with slanted eyes and buck teeth was racially insensitive and offensive to Asians worldwide.  President Trump, slicing a ball onto the roof of the club house, said voters overwhelming chose him over “Crooked Hillary” because “they’ve had it up the wazoo with political correctness” and “very unfair” attacks on clean coal.  Shouts of “lock her up” in accented English commenced, as if on cue, from a nearby caddy shack. 

Interfax News Agency released a North Korean produced CGI enhanced video depicting 100 ICBM’S destroying Mar A Lago in a bright red and yellow mushroom cloud.  An obese figure nude except for a long red tie flees the building, hair engulfed in flames, then jumps into the ocean creating a huge cloud of orange steam.   An unnamed administration official who was in the situation room when the national security team viewed the video and didn’t want to be identified, said the President was “apoplectic” the North Koreans had left his genitalia unenhanced. 

Hours later President Trump flew to West Virginia where he addressed the entire population of the state, bussed into Flat Top for the rally.  The President talked about the “record numbers of people” at his inauguration, “off the charts, nothing like it in history”.  He called for his predecessor, President Barack Obama, to “rot in Gitmo” and described Obama’s golf game as “amateur hour”, adding “everyone knows those people can’t play golf.  Where’s Tiger?  I’m just saying.”  The President promised to “dig up every last lump of coal” in the state and “burn it on Al Gore’s front lawn”, then regaled a group of second graders in the front row with a ribald story about himself, Rob Goldstone and some “very fine tail” in St. Petersburg during the Miss Universe pageant in 2013.  As the entire state chanted “MAGA”, Trump turned his attention to North Korea.  “I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain.  I’ve seen sunny days that I thought would never end.  It’s from the Book of Revelation.  Terrific book, real page turner.”  He then unveiled a large wooden crate marked Acme Dynamite with a huge inflatable Kim Jong-un tethered on top.  Trump struck a match to what many assumed was a prop fuse leading back to the crate.  Witnesses said a large explosion obliterated the stage and left a thirty foot crater.  The Presidents hair was recovered floating in a hog wallow near Beckley.  A forensics team is working to identify molecular remains.  There were unconfirmed reports that Mitch McConnell had been seen loitering backstage shortly before the accident. 
Vice President Mike Pence, who appeared to be suppressing a smile, offered his condolences to the Trump family, exchanging fist bumps with Melania Trump before taking the oath of office.  Kim Jong-un sent his regards along with a cryptic “beep beep”.   






    

Thursday, May 18, 2017

revision

Dinner In Galway

We first laid eyes on you over drinks
and dinner in the Latin Quarter,
a short stroll from the Spanish Arch, 
its historical significance gone
in a heartbeat along with all
expectation of ambush
by austere beauty
on those wind swept stepping stones
Inishmore, Inishmaan and Inisheer.

The River Corrib gleams
like vintage vinyl beneath
Wolfe Tone Bridge,  
grainy and black as your liquid
image glowing serene on screen,
countless heartbeats of moonlight
mingling quayside with the sea
in a salty embrace that stings
my eyes and seizes me
by the throat.

The windows of St. Martin’s
frame the timeless river.
Soft chamois of morning lifts
the stubborn tarnish of dawn
from its braided embellished tales.  
We tuck into our full Irish and drink
watery coffee while you float outside
time to the rhythm of the tides
in your small brackish sea.


Wednesday, May 17, 2017

For Henry

Dinner In Galway

We first laid eyes on you over drinks
and a late dinner in the Latin Quarter,
a short stroll from the Spanish Arch, 
its historical significance gone
in a heartbeat along with expectation
of ambush by austere beauty
on those wind swept stepping stones
Inishmore, Inishmaan and Inisheer.

The River Corrib rushes
beneath Wolfe Tone Bridge,
grainy and black as your liquid
image on the screen,
countless heartbeats of moonlight
mingling quayside with the sea
in a salty embrace that stings
my eyes and seizes my throat.

The windows of St. Martin’s
frame the timeless river.
Chamois cloth of morning
lifts the stubborn tarnish of dawn
from its braided embellishments.  
We tuck into our full Irish and drink
the watery coffee while you float
outside of time in your brackish sea.


Sunday, May 14, 2017

To the mothers

Mother To Words

It’s the letting go,
book of your hands
forever falling open,
your words on the page  
taking flight a few downy
letters at a time, sentences
learning to trust their wings,
short forays of paragraphs
you strain to read against
porcelain blue sky, 
whole chapters lifting
off as one to wheel
by their own lights,
leaving you
to slip between
these clean white pages
with a good book,
trying not to read
too much into the author’s
soaring dedication. 










Thursday, May 11, 2017

revision

Racquetball

Years after giving up the game
for good I still dream of turning
up late to a match juggling
a chipped red racquet,

high-impact lenses,
salt tanned right hand
glove and two
blue balls fresh in the can,

my dream court receding
down darkened halls,
a warren of identical doors,
portholes slashing avocado

carpet with watery cross ties,
florescent flickers that merge and pool,
flushing me into flat light within
a stark white cube to toe the red

service line once again only to find
my forehand serve impeded
by stacked furniture and packing
crates arranged into a crooked lane

plat of a miniature medieval
Bruges.  Racquetball,
a game of angles gone
sadly out of fashion,

the MacGuffin in my dreams  
and my playing days when you
were my true opponent.  Never one
for racquet sports, you ran me

stroking passing shots, methodical
while I hurled myself heedless
headlong into walls, losing on points,
nursing trophies of bruises. 


revised

Reading In Bed

As it happens I did not buy this book
of collected poems in St. John, New Brunswick or
Charlottetown, P.E.I.  I didn’t pick it up
in Yorkville on a long weekend in Toronto,
nor was I delighted to spot it in a window display
on a stop I didn’t make for coffee in Kamloops, B.C. 
No doubt Halifax has its share of bookstores,
none of which I’ve visited on the road
to North Sydney to catch the ferry to Newfoundland,
where one imagines happening upon a salt cured,
weather beaten mom and pop clinging to life
quayside in St. Johns.  
The border with sleep lies just up ahead
where soon I’ll be borne across
on thoughts of the boats of these poems
lifted on the rising tide of the U.S. dollar,  
Billy Collins buttoned up for the night
inside a tent pitched upon the calm seas
of my chest.





   


Wednesday, May 10, 2017

Exchange rate

Reading In Bed

As it happens I did not buy this book
of collected poems in St. John, New Brunswick or
Charlottetown, P.E.I.  I didn’t pick it up in Yorkville
on a weekend spree in Toronto, nor was I delighted
to spot it in a window display when I stopped
for lunch in Kamloops, B.C. 
No doubt Halifax has its share of bookstores,
none of which I’ve visited on the road to North Sydney
to catch the ferry to Newfoundland,
where one could imagine happening upon
a salt cured, weather beaten mom and pop
clinging to life quayside in St. Johns.  
The border with sleep lies just up ahead
where soon I’ll be borne across
on thoughts of the boats of these poems
rising on the tide of the U.S. dollar,  
The Rain In Portugal a tent
rising and falling on my chest.