from Anthony Lane on Werner Herzog

Struck Color-Blind Tomorrow,

he would embark on a film about Matisse

most people would miss in limited release

yet discovered, perhaps, one wet April night

scrolling through titles, my fancy in flight

turning up once again one Thursday in June

wandering through galleries humming a tune

lost in “The Window”, I lose track of all time

gone in my daydream you’ve left me behind

to pace the four corners of that flat green room

circle the plant stand by the light of the moon

wait for you there on that crazy quilt rug

embark on my own film, pine for your hugs. 

Make mine rare

Lightning Strikes 323 Norwegian Reindeer

Hunters made the discovery, stealth and urine

dabbed anoraks all for nothing not to mention

a critical downwind approach and camo blend

that rendered Frode and Jørgen or Ove and Anders

invisible against rock and lichen and cloudberry

but offered little protection against thoughts sublime.

Ove, perhaps, cursing God for poor sportsmanship,

the divine equivalent of dynamiting fish, while Anders

gave silent thanks to fortune, a freezer full of steaks. 

.

So it goes

Rump of Summer

Summer is dressed in her finest, a day spent on the beach

Shoreline stroll in a black burkini, a walk out on the reach

But fall arrives with a nightstick to roust out all the crooks

Take it off gals or go back home, give those nuns the hook

Donald Trump is off his meds, his rocker and the rails

Breitbart soars in media-world, alt-white the color of its sails

Ugly game within a game, give Crooked Hillary the booby prize

Trump aims higher, Orwell-land, where two plus two is five.

Hillary Clinton wants my vote, got it stashed in a pickle jar

They snuck in wearing bandit masks when I was at the bar

Ransacked the place, her gang of thieves, Bill and some Wall Street thugs,

She got my vote but I drew the line when she came back for a hug.

Our Revolution, the flame still burns bright, Bernie he’s our man

Hot like a blintz on Clinton’s rear, but for Wasserman, it was in the can

Jeff Weaver at the wheel, twenty-seven dollar donations on the gas

Can’t this thing go faster? Jettison some staffers and top it off with cash.