Po-Biz Ars Poetica
Form is a slippery seed to be grasped.
Free verse is form with its bra hook unclasped.
Blocked is me chewing my fanciest pens.
Pun is a test of my spouse and my friends.
Drunk is the poet who’s making a pass.
Prize is a unicorn chased by an ass.
Tome is Uranus-sized ego unbound.
Deep is the grave of my darlings I’ve drowned.
Rhyme is the hill where I’m willing to die.
Meh is the mic hog who sounds like AI.
Crit is a cig from a firing squad.
Light is the thirstiest verse. Please applaud.
Nine Alla Barnens
All the children chew their pencils
Except for Collette
She chews Nicorette
All the children have milk mustaches
Except for Neil
His ‘stache is real
All the children peed in the swimming pool
Except for Bruce
He dropped a deuce
All the children had money in piggy banks
Except for Lenore
She had an account offshore
All the children jumped off a cliff
Except for Blaise
He hates clichés
All the children gave the teacher apples
Except for Bryce
He gave her lice
All the children repeated their mistakes
Except for Jude
He had his tattooed
All the children had their lunch money stolen
Except for Dottie
She knew karate
All the children ran with scissors
Except for Paloma
She ran in Pamplona
‘Murica!
To settle a dispute,
ask questions later. Shoot.
Don’t Get Me Wrong, Mr. Poet Man
I’m happy talking shop and rubbing
elbows with esprit.
You’re not a luminary, but
you’re better known than me.
Although I smile and schmooze with bards
from London to Oswego,
you’re dreaming if you think I’m stroking
more than just your ego.
The Grift That Keeps on Giving
My AmEx number stolen by some jerk,
he charged a big subscription. One small perk?—
the thing that tipped me off. And so I gloat,
“At least I got the free New Yorker tote.”
Throuple’s Clerihew
Elizabeth Holloway and William Moulton Marston,
polyamorous, not only used their smarts on
inventing an early prototype of the polygraph—but forsooth!—
co-inspired by Olive Byrne, also created Wonder Woman and her Lasso of Truth.
Tailgaters
Comic Sans
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything,
The half-assed snowman slouches into spring.
Bet Your Bottom Dollar
Methought I was enamoured of an ass.
‘Twas not a dream, Melania, alas.
A High Romance
When I have fears that I may cease to be,
I chill and take an edible or three.