You’ve added value to the moon’s eclipse.
With deep strings, faint marimbas, Luna slips
slowly away until severely narrow—
an orange-red sliver of blood and marrow—
the umbra, as you say. And then it’s gone!
But never fear, your music remains on:
This loop (63 seconds, on repeat,
of enigmatic tones that have no beat
but calm the heart) makes shadowed minutes fly,
although more tedious than a lullaby.
At last an arc of light teases the edge
of what was missing but not lost, to wedge
familiar crescent gold back into view,
as lovely as before, and to renew
a sense of hope and wonder, resolute
as … Mantovani? Next time, I’ll click “Mute.”
I think that no one ever saw
A poet feel like Rupi Kaur.
Alas for obsolete old Joyce:
How fusty looks his every choice!
The genuine poetic urge
Requires us not to plan but splurge;
Not rhyme, like some old petticoat:
Just grab the i-Pad and emote.
But Joyce was killed in World War One,
When poetry had just begun:
He wrote on paper made of tree;
The Internet produced Rupi.
“Fortuitously, a marvelous work by the celebrated contemporary Italian artist, Maurizio Cattelan, is coming off view today after a year’s installation at the Guggenheim, and he would like to offer it to the White House for a long-term loan. … The work beautifully channels the history of 20th-century avant-garde art.”—Letter from Nancy Spector, curator of the Guggenheim
Of all the esoterica
To grace the White House annals,
There’s few to match “America,”
Most avant-garde of channels.
This marvel is, as you’ll have seen
(I’d really hate to spoil it),
A fully functioning latrine:
The world’s most costly toilet,
Or rather (let me try to find
Terms pleasing to the nation)
A bathroom of the richest kind;
A golden comfort station.
O my “America,” your beam
Bespangles all the White House,
Reflected in a private stream
Like some uprooted lighthouse!
It’s no use playing satirist
With things like this in town.
Let’s just beware, if they persist,
Of what comes trickling down.
A free press is a pain in the ass—
On most journals I’ll just take a pass— But I love the warm glow Of a well-landed blow
From an X-rated Forbes-wielding lass.
“‘They are like animals’: Chaos erupts as French shoppers battle over discounted Nutella.”—The Washington Post
Although it’s not all that nutritious,
Nutella’s insanely delicious!
Its chocolate and nuts—
Plus drastic price cuts—
Can make a consumer quite vicious.
“Adolescence now lasts . . . to 24, although it used to be thought to end at 19.”—BBC News
Thirteen, from dump to Georgian deanery,
Proclaims the start of offsprings’ teenery.
The years this lasts are, strictly, seven
For parents often far from heaven,
With all the trials of adolescence
From lethargy to effervescence.
Hail, acne, mood-swings, hormones, braces,
Binge-drinking, break-ups, surly faces,
And fads, from eco-freak to Moonie,
Tongue-piercing, tattoos, choice of Uni!
But now, it seems, its real duration
Is six more years of tribulation,
Financial chaos, unwise beddings,
Court orders, drugs, and shotgun weddings.
Yet, worse, the cynic will assert, is
With some it stretches through their thirties.
Rupi Kaur’s poetry
isn’t appealing.
The form’s too informal.
It’s too full of feeling. The Guardian said, so
we know that it’s true.
And now that I’ve read so,
I know what to do.
I’m giving up Instagram—
I’ll be at ease
with Joyce Kilmer’s old
ruminations on trees.
“[Stephanie] Clifford also described her sexual encounters with the businessman, saying … “The sex was nothing crazy. … It was textbook generic. … I can definitely describe his junk perfectly, if I ever have to.”—In Touch magazine
He’d endlessly brag how he looked on a mag—
A regular treat for humanity;
His meanest remarks were directed at sharks:
He hates them (except for Sean Hannity).
Just picture the scene: the sharks on the screen,
With me in the briefest of nighties,
And hot in pursuit, presidential but cute,
Himself, in petite tighty-whities.
It got kind of dark and we watched some more shark:
It never got really much swoonier.
The act was generic (remember, there’s Eric)
Not crazy (but still there’s Don Junior).
He promised I’d be, like, a star on TV,
Then he asked: “Will you sign me a print of you?”
I felt the whole drama just clamoured for karma:
And that’s why I’m giving this interview.
“House Republicans coalesce behind plan to avert shutdown” —Politico.com
Same old shenanigan—
playing kick-the-can again—
Hallelujah, give the leaders praise!
If we just delay to tax
health devices, Cadillacs,
we can function for another twenty days.
And as for DACA, say,
we should march those kids away,
only seven hundred thousand, more or less.
We will raise a mighty shout
as we ship the Dreamers out,
and that settles up the immigration mess.
Do we need a border wall?
No, frankly, not at all,
and the Democrats oppose it to a man.
Leave security aside,
give them CHIP to soothe their pride;
let’s play another game of kick-the can.
From deep within the bowels of Diamond Head,
an oracle proclaims: Looks like we’re dead! Soon missiles will be arcing through our skies. (There’s little hope they’re headed for Van Nuys.)
Radiation, spawned by North Korea, will cause hysteria and diarrhea. Quite seriously, this is not a hoax. Stop what you’re doing and find shelter, folks.
Bikinied bombshells leave the beaches bare,
and handsome hunks hightail it out of there.
Which leaves what? Wrinkled prunes, like you and I.
Aloha, love. Goodbye. Hello. Goodbye.
