by Erika Fine
Impeachment reporting suffuses the news—
Did Trump, in his phone call, abuse and misuse
His power to garner political gain,
As if global affairs were his private domain,
As if monarchy rule were the Founders’ intent,
When instead he is just what they sought to prevent?
by Nina Parmenter
McDonald’s Chief Executive, who is said to have earned over 2000 times the median wage of a McDonald’s worker, has been fired following a relationship with an employee.
We’re drowning our diners in sugar, it seems—
our food is obesity packaged as dreams!
We really don’t mind about that, sir,
it’s only some kids getting fat, sir.
We pledged to help forests! Prevent their demise!
Yet the ash of the Amazon taints our supplies.
We really don’t mind about that, sir,
let Marketing fluff it with chat, sir.
I’m paying myself way too much, say the haters—
two thousand times more than our burger creators!
We really don’t mind about that, sir,
you need that Dior for your cat, sir.
Oh yes, and I had a consensual kiss
in the stationery stores, which was slightly remiss.
We really DO mind about that, sir,
so here are your coat and your hat, sir.
by Nora Jay
after Yeats
“Joyce fans mourn loss of Dublin’s soul as developers buy House of the Dead …
[A]rtists—and artistic legacy—now face a threat from hotels, hostels and offices … More than 80 new hotel projects with names like Aloft, Central, Hyatt, Grafton, Hard Rock, Iveagh Garden, Marlin, Mayson, Radisson and Wetherspoon are at various stages of development.”
—The Guardian
A chintzy and belated end:
From ruin into fake;
For Death who takes what man would keep
Has many ways to take.
The Officers of Public Work
Had chance enough to bid,
But they did not, admitting thus
Developers, who did.
These know what ghoulish tourists crave
At table or in bed:
What will become of Dublin’s soul
Now the Dead House is dead?
I have heard it said on Google
That if we don’t act soon
All Dublin will be lost to Death,
Hard Rock, and Wetherspoon.
My expectation’s gloomy:
It’s not a pleasing blend:
Old landmarks sold, rates up threefold,
And tourists end to end.
They want red carpets for their feet,
Not Yeatsy dreams outspread!
What will become of Dublin’s soul,
Now the Dead House is dead?
by Julia Griffin
“’We risk only having respect for things insofar as they resemble human experience and characteristics,’ writes Anna Grear, among the best analysts of [the new “animism”] movement. ‘The law [instead] needs to develop a new framework in which the human is entangled and thrown in the midst of a lively materiality— rather than assumed to be the masterful, knowing centre.’”
—The Guardian
Can someone make this game work?
I’m feeling quite humangled:
The law has made a framework
In which I’ve been entangled.
You shrug this off as kids’ stuff?
I scorn your humentality:
I’m flailing in the midst of
A wild materiality!
by Julia Griffin
“Baby It’s Cold Outside rewritten by John Legend to remove ‘date-rape’ lyric …
Legend, along with lyricist Natasha Rothwell, has rewritten the song for a duet with Kelly Clarkson. An interview with Legend in Vanity Fair reveals that the new lyrics include: ‘What will my friends think…’ ‘I think they should rejoice.’ ‘…if I have one more drink?’ ‘It’s your body, and your choice.'”
—The Guardian
I really can say no. (Baby, you’re free to go.)
Not that that’s all I say— (Baby, no need to stay.)
Tempest is howling through; (Baby, it’s up to you.)
Also there’s freezing rain. (Baby, I won’t mansplain.)
Car could be quickly wrecked; (Treatin’ you with respect.)
Plus I’ve mislaid the key. (You’ve got autonomy.)
Couldn’t you smooth your voice? (Your body and your choice.)
Kind of enjoyed your drawl. (No pressure here at all.)
Say, what is in this drink? (Water. It’s from the sink.)
Didn’t I smell Merlot? (I get that No means No.)
Maybe I ought to scoot. (Baby, I won’t dispute.)
Guess I should really shift. (Baby, I’ll call a Lyft.)
Guess I should face the storm. (Baby, those boots look warm.)
Guess you’ve been sanctified! (Won’t try to override.)
Could you not sound so snide? (Look, the door’s open wide.)
Baby, it’s cold inside!
by Dan Campion
“His Unforced Verbal Fumbles Burden Biden on the Stump”
—The New York Times
“His unforced verbal fumbles burden Biden on the stump,”
A headline numbly rumbles, clumping stumbles in a lump.
Though jumbles of Joe’s bumbles tumble through a news day’s dump,
His mumbles aren’t as dumb as grumbles trumpeted by Trump.
by Chris O’Carroll
(to the tune of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game“)
Here I am at the ball game!
Why am I getting booed?
I killed the leader of ISIS today.
(The Kurds didn’t help me at all, by the way.)
Fans should cheer, cheer, cheer for my genius,
But I’m not hearing applause.
Sounds like this whole crowd’s human scum
Who think I break laws.
by Nora Jay
“Five hundred goats save the Ronald Reagan library from wildfires:
Animal team charged with eating through 13 acres of scrubland that could have fueled California’s Easy Fire”
—The Guardian
We pride our kind on being better-read;
But goats butt in where bookworms fear to tread.
So here’s a grateful toast to goats and breeders,
From Ronald Reagan’s ruminating readers.
by Anna M. Evans
New Jersey is one of only four US states that hold their legislative elections in odd-numbered years and thus have a statewide election every single November.
It’s fall, but all the trees still have their leaves on
in shades of orange, burnished bronze, and red…
…so that must mean that it’s election season.
When I moved here I didn’t need a reason
to drink in beauty—Look around! I said,
It’s fall, and yet the trees still have their leaves on!
At first, I settled gladly in a region
where leaves turn stunning right before they’re shed.
Now, it just means that it’s election season—
the lawn signs, and the mailers, and the legion
of lying TV ads, the “Talking Heads.”
It’s fall, and though the trees still have their leaves on
I pass them by, and not a single frisson
of joy will pierce the existential dread
that weighs me down each new election season.
The President may have committed treason.
No wonder that my peace of mind has fled!
It’s fall, and while the trees still have their leaves on,
that simply means (now) it’s election season.
by Ruth S. Baker
“[A military dog] … chased Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi into a tunnel before he [Baghdadi] detonated a suicide vest and died. Intrigue about the dog began building after the president disclosed that […] the dog was injured. … ‘Our canine, as they call — I call it a dog, a beautiful dog, a talented dog — was injured and brought back,’ Trump said.”
—The Washington Post
“A spy stole ISIS leader Baghdadi’s underwear for DNA test, Kurds say”
—CNN
The Kurds (no angels, as we know)
Still brought us news it’s good to know:
Baghdadi’s shorts were snatched away
And tested for their DNA.
Who made the link from briefs to man?
Some scientist, perhaps (they can),
But this terse tweet from Trump suggests
Less posh identifying tests.
Some lodge their talent in their minds,
But talents come in different kinds,
And much though DNA may tell,
There’s nothing quite so sure as smell.
Who caught Big Daddy in the end?
Some famous SEAL? Forget it, friend:
A selfless canine, on his shift,
Chased Someone down a hole, and sniffed.
by Phil Huffy
I dreamt the clock went back too far
and things were not so great—
for there I was in my old room
in 1968!
I hadn’t done my calculus,
and now had overslept
and knew there was a physics test
for which I wasn’t prepped.
I peered into the looking glass
where blemishes I spied.
(The Clearasil had disappeared
and could not be applied.)
I turned away and ran downstairs
intent on Cap’n Crunch
and found the box had nothing left,
then packed a dismal lunch.
I heard the school bus coming by
and stumbled at the door
then woke up very glad to be
my older self once more.
by Orel Protopopescu
“House Republicans stormed a closed-door hearing Wednesday to protest the Democrats’ swift-moving impeachment inquiry…”
—The Hill
“13 Republicans involved in impeachment protest already have access to hearings”
—axios.com
(to the tune of Little Richard’s “You Keep a Knockin’”)
House members stompin’ say they can’t come in.
You keep us out? they say, we’ll barge right in!
Your secret hearings are a cryin’ sin,
and we’ll be comin’ back to try it again!
Here comes Lee Zeldin, Rep from New York One. (Ha!)
Why is he cocky, like a loaded gun? (Whooo!)
He’s got a seat, so why this bombin’ run?
He always stays until the hearing’s done!
Trump told him this is how we’re gonna win,
show me you love me, go and barge right in.
To turn this thing around, we need some spin.
You gotta have the guts to pull out the pin!
So Zeldin’s stompin’ down the road to Hell,
his belfry ringin’ like a broken bell.
He can’t smell sulfur, got no sense of smell.
That should be useful in a prison cell. (Whah!)
He keeps a stompin’ but he can come in.
He’s got to show the boss his skin’s not thin. (Whooo!)
Not easy playin’ rage not genuine,
knowin’ your party is a loony bin.
He keeps a stompin’ cause he doesn’t care
about the process that he calls unfair.
Next time he better bring a potty chair
to hold the crap he’s spewin’ into the air! (Whooo!)
House members stompin’ say they can’t come in.
You keep us out? they say, we’ll barge right in!
Your secret hearings are a cryin’ sin,
and we’ll be comin’ back to try it again!
by Nora Jay
“Bangladeshi MP allegedly hired eight lookalikes to take her place in exams …
Tamanna Nusrat, from the ruling Awami League party, is accused of paying the lookalikes to pretend to be her in at least 13 tests.”
—The Guardian
The me who took Sports Management
Was sure of 90+%,
While some more sums-y avatar
Took charge of College Algebra.
My very closest lookalike
Was down for Logic and for Psych,
Though greater love no double hath
Than offering herself in Math.
The self who took Domestic Science
Was in, we thought, complete compliance,
And my most money-minded me
Took Business and Accountancy.
Who really cares which Nusrat sits
For tests in Foreign Langs and Lits?
Only my wretched Ethics twin,
Who took the test, then turned me in.