“Talk like an Egyptian: mummy’s voice heard 3,000 years after death Researchers in UK recreate Nesyamun’s sound using 3D version of his vocal tract” —The Guardian
What did a mummy sound like? Now we know.
A 3D version of one vocal tract
Is now available on audio.
You might expect it snufflesome and cracked,
A sort of prehistoric phonograph;
In fact the sound is clear and not that deep.
You can imagine how the corpse might laugh,
Or warble in his bath, or cough, or weep.
As for the words he utters, or the word:
There’s some dispute. It sounds a bit like “air,”
Or maybe “bare.” Or how would you construe
This fleeting, bleating syllable you heard?
The past lies still for all its heirs to bear.
What does the mummy say? That’s up to you.
“Frozen iguanas forecast to shower south Florida as temperatures drop [W]ildlife conservationists recommend not touching frozen iguanas, as they may thaw unexpectedly and feel threatened if a person comes close to them.” —The Guardian
O Florida! In August, all bananas;
In January, gellified iguanas.
Floridians are primed to be accosted
This month by reptiles, keen to be defrosted;
Experts, however, warn against succumbing.
The temperature’s not harmful, only numbing,
And when iguanas’ blood once more is moving,
You’ll find their attitude needs some improving.
You’d think they might be wheezing out hosannas;
But gratitude is foreign to iguanas,
And what could be more irksome, in a blizzard,
Than being threatened by a chilly lizard?
“Trump Removes Pollution Controls on Streams and Wetlands … The new water rule for the first time in decades [will] allow landowners and property developers to dump pollutants such as pesticides and fertilizers directly into hundreds of thousands of waterways, and to destroy or fill in wetlands for construction projects.” —The New York Times
Duck. Duck. Goose.
Chemicals on the loose.
Put them in our food supply.
Tighten up the noose.
Little Jack Coroner
inspects a pumpkin pie.
The lab results: carcinogens.
Jump. Skip. Die.
“The Mitchell County Animal Rescue in North Carolina posted an adoption ad on Facebook that introduced the world to Perdita, the ”World’s Worst Cat.’ ‘We thought she was sick,’ the ad said. ‘Turns out she’s just a jerk.'” —CNN
HOME WANTED for a piece of work:
A veritable feline jerk.
Believe she’s sick? Believe again:
She’s just a claw-deploying pain,
Whose one idea of a lark
Is spreading bitterness and dark.
She is not spayed, but never fear:
No other cat would dare come near;
She’s had her shots, but you know what?
You’ll quickly wish that she had not.
Likes: pricey foods (each one just once);
Emitting bored, sarcastic grunts;
Biting and scratching; raising welts.
Hates: pleasing anybody else;
Togetherness of any sort;
Affection; courtesy; in short
All kinds of human contact save
The kind that means an early grave.
With most adoptions, we prefer
A trial run, but not with her;
The bottom line: this toxic cat
Once yours is yours, and that is that.
This is the form, if you insist.
It names a vet, and exorcist.
What’s the use of wond’ring
if he’s evil or deranged,
or if you find his tweets and morals crass?
Oh, what’s the use of wond’ring
if he’ll blow the world to bits? He’s their fellow and they’ll keep on
pretending he’s no ass.
Common sense may tell you
that the ending will be sad,
unless his party’s hiding honest souls.
But what’s the use of wond’ring
if there’s honor among thieves?
Nothing scares them like their leader,
except the latest polls.
Something made Trump the way that he is,
Big Macs or genes or drugs.
And something lets him keep what is his—
A base with a taste for thugs.
He calls all children “sacred,”
while he starves and cages some,
but nothing seems to make the Senate balk.
His bribes, assaults and treason,
they keep covering up like mad.
He’s their fellow and they need him,
so all the rest is talk.
Common sense may tell you
that the ending will be sad,
unless Trump’s party crashes at the polls.
But what’s the use of wond’ring
if we’ll end the nightmare soon?
Wily Fox chews truth to pieces,
with help from Russian trolls.
“Etienne Naude, 19, placed a slice of white bread on the ground at Bucklands Beach in Auckland, using longitude and latitude to ensure he was precisely opposite a volunteer he had found in the south of Spain after posting for help on Reddit. The two men—total strangers—had 12,724km of earth between them, creating an ‘earth sandwich’.” —The Guardian
Two strangers, mapping out its girth,
Have made a sandwich of the earth.
In Bucklands Beach and southern Spain,
They framed the whole terrene terrain,
Encompassing a lavish heap
8,000 miles (or almost) deep
Of dusty mantle, rocks ablaze,
O2, Fe, and mayonnaise.
Two well-positioned satellites
Observed this heartiest of bites,
And YouTube’s now put all on show:
The least exclusive club we know.
“Man requests sword fight with ex-wife and lawyer to settle legal dispute: David Ostrom, 40, of Paola, Kansas asks judge for trial by combat in 12 weeks, so he has time to secure Japanese samurai swords” —The Guardian
Divorce proceedings need not be so hard
If proper measures are secured. En garde!
In twelve weeks’ time, if UPS accords,
I shall secure two wakizashi swords,
To end this disagreement with Bridgette
Concerning custody and taxes. Pret!
Upon the field of battle, we shall rend
Our souls from these our bodies. Trust me, friend,
A mortal joust will be a holiday
Compared with lawyers’ interviews. Allez!
“Scientists use stem cells from frogs to build first living robots … The source of the cells [Xenopus laevis] led the scientists to call their creations ‘xenobots’. … [R]esearchers describe how … [s]ome crept along in straight lines, while others looped around in circles or teamed up with others as they moved around. … Thomas Douglas, a senior research fellow at the Oxford Uehiro Centre for Practical Ethics, said: ‘ … difficult questions could arise about whether these xenobots should be classified as living creatures or machines.’” —The Guardian
They live ten days, if that is what they do,
Or else their batteries endure that long.
Some have two “legs.” Some have a hole, right through
Their “hearts.” Without a colony or song,
How can they have a sense of self or group?
Is it by choice they creep along the ground
In a straight line, or singly loop the loop,
Or join with others as they move around?
They are not frogs. Let’s say they simply are,
And pray they’ll clean our world and eat our waste
Before the time (let’s pray it’s very far)
When really awkward questions must be faced.
“With a funny, gorgeous, sexy, and beautifully unexpected scent, this candle is made with geranium, citrusy bergamot, and cedar absolutes juxtaposed with Damask rose and ambrette seed to put us in mind of fantasy, seduction, and a sophisticated warmth.” —Goop advertisement for “This Smells Like My Vagina” candle
Geranium and bergamot,
Sweet, sexy notes! And—hush:
Within the cedar, is there not
A little tender thrush…?
“The latest trouble at the border… U.S. Customs and Border Protection has a problem with vultures—specifically, roughly 300 of them that are defecating and urinating all over a radio tower that the agency needs to communicate.” —The Washington Post
Some troubles never go away.
But who’d have thought that birds of prey
Would join those “flouting rules and laws”
and lend their powers to the cause?
“The Government Accountability Office…, a nonpartisan congressional watchdog, said … that the White House [Office of Management and Budget] violated the Impoundment Control Act, a 1974 law that limits the White House from withholding funds that Congress has appropriated.” —CNN
In GAO v. OMB
(A watchdog posed against grandee)
There’s either nothing here to see
(Says OMB), or else the flow
Of funds was stopped (says GAO)
Illegally. It’s either/or,
You’d think. Except we can’t ignore
The obfuscative tendency
Of present White House regency,
Where OMBs and DOJs
Fill in while their Dear Sovereign plays
At being Emperor. What law,
They’ll ask, what act? and then guffaw
Behind closed doors. But don’t despair.
A whistle-blower’s listening there.
Harry and Meghan are flying the nest!
Now they are free for the work they do best:
Diffusing their love and their fabulousness,
Without all the duties, the damp, and the Press.
Meghan and Harry are flying the coop,
Leaving the List, heading out of the loop;
And all they will ask is a homestead or ten,
For Archie, and all their security men.
