by Edmund Conti

Among Trump’s problems to be sorted out—
Having his body man escorted out.

by Dan Campion

I’m Stormy, big guy, who are you?
You’re Dave? Then Peg, that’s me.
No sense in letting out a clue.
It’s Don? I’m Stephanie.
We’re on the same page now, at last.
Except you didn’t sign.
Well, be it known we had a blast
In ways names can’t define.

by Bruce Bennett

“Asked by New Scientist magazine what he thought
about most, Dr. Hawking answered: ‘Women.
They are a complete mystery.'”—The New York Times, 3/14/18

Black holes were nothing. He got the hang
Of Time, the Universe, The Big Bang.
Just one thing stumped him, eluding his brain.
He’s gone, and that mystery will remain.

by Brendan Beary

The woman repeatedly shouted, “I’m God!” as she tried to pop open the door,
Till startled attendants and passengers stopped her and wrestled her down to the floor.
I’ve questions aplenty—but if you can answer the first, I’ll forgo all the rest:
For getting from Frisco to Boise, why is it the godhead is taking SkyWest?

by Julia Griffin

Florida woman wins conch-blowing contest—and a marriage proposal
Fellow conch player Rick Race, 73 … dropped to one knee on stage and proposed to [Mary Lou] Smith, 70. She responded by coaxing a hearty note from the shell, as onlookers cheered.—The Guardian

O charming was the conch she blew!
Admirers clustered thick;
But none would do for Mary Lou
But Concho Honcho Rick.

Rick Race, his name: a concher-wonk,
By nobody impressed
Till Mary Lou performed a conch
Concerto in Key West.

Such hearty concord filled the air,
He dropped upon one knee,
Whereat she coaxed her conch to bare
Its heart’s concavity.

Then all around began to cheer,
And bang the honky tonk,
The surfboard, and the chandelier,
In time with conch and conch:

For Mary Lou had won her Race,
Her very best encore;
While one might trace in Race’s face
The conscious conqueror.

by Orel Protopopescu

“After Losing Tariff Battle, Trump Economic Adviser Cohn Resigns”—NPR.org

I juggled knives with numbskulls
on the budget cuts—no sweat!
I crossed swords over taxes
and Obamacare—you bet!

Through storming neo-Nazis,
assorted Russian proxies,
a boss with brains like pot cheese,
his leaking hotsie totsies,
through daily resignations,
clandestine assignations,
Wall Street could trust my brand,
my strong (if trembling) hand.

But I draw the line on tariffs.
Start a war, but not on trade.
How could I hurt my people
who demand financial aid?

by Bob McKenty

Everybody ought to have a gun:
An Uzi or an AK-41.
Every gangster has to have a gat
In case he must exterminate a rat.
Every private eye should pack a rod
To send a miscreant to meet his God.
Every teacher ought to get a Glock,
The better to protect their little flock.
Every hoodlum needs to have a piece.
So, should we arm our soldiers and police?

by Mae Scanlan

Michael Cohen says he paid
One hundred thirty thousand bucks
To Stormy Daniels, porno maid,
To buy the lady’s silence. Shucks,

The system works the other way:
The client pays the lawyer. Well,
If you believe this nonsense, hey,
I’ve got a bridge I’d like to sell.

by Michael R. Burch

Eeenie, mean-ie, mine-y, mo’ …
one gal must stay and one must go.
If she hollers? That’s the show!

No heart can handle such despair!
But hearts get broken, hearts repair.
Next season, the treasoned will rule the air.

by J. Hoy

You said that when the shootings start,
you’d run right in and do your part.
Well, Donald, if that much is true,
please let me hold the door for you.

by Julia Griffin

“[Participants] were also asked to rate on a scale how disgusted they were by a collection of statements linked to body odours such as ‘You are sitting next to a friend and notice that your feet smell strongly,’ and how emphatically they agreed with 15 statements linked to rightwing authoritarianism such as ‘Our country needs a powerful leader, in order to destroy the radical and immoral currents prevailing in society today.’ … The results reveal that rightwing authoritarianism was linked to a feeling of repulsion towards body odours, and that the link also underpinned a weak association between such feelings of disgust and support for Donald Trump.”—The Guardian

You’re sitting by a friend at a professional retreat,
And notice, rather forcefully, the odor of your feet.
Percentage-wise, how probably would you elect to say:
“A strong man at the helm is what our country needs today!”

You’ve come to see Miss Pimpleton for picking on your son,
And just as you’re correcting her, your nose begins to run.
Inspect your heart: statistically, what chance is there you’d wail:
“We need a chief, or these immoral currents will prevail!”

You’re dressed up in your Sunday best, just heading for your pew,
And something noisy happens and you’re pretty sure it’s you.
Please tell us how emphatically you think you would agree:
“Authoritative leadership’s the only kind for me!”

You’re waiting at the doctor’s, watching interviews on Fox,
When suddenly you feel a rash suggestive of the pox.
Now on a scale from one to ten: how loudly would you yell:
“Get out and vote for Trump or else this nation’s bound for Hell!”

by James Hamby

“Housing and Urban Development Secretary Ben Carson canceled the order after it was revealed his office decoration exceeded the legal budget of $5,000″—U.S. News & World Report

She told him of the limit,
She even told him why
They’d have to stay within it,
And a teardrop filled his eye.

“Five thousand’s not enough!
It’ll leave the office bare.
This budget limit’s tough—
I can’t even buy a chair!”

He cursed the wasteful crutch
That HUD gave to the poor:
“No mahogany hutch?
Then what’s our budget for?”

by Barbara Loots

Never watch a Roomba* if you want to keep your wits.
No chaos or uncertainty’s more probable than its.

When loosed upon a room to clean the floor’s entire expanse,
The Roomba, politician-wise, performs a crazy dance.

Its only wisdom is derived from bouncing off the walls,
Rebounding in whatever way the sensor first recalls,

And thus it never knows where it has been or what comes next
And seems to the observing mind perpetually perplexed.

Stymied in a corner or entangled in some fringes,
The Roomba halts completely and its inner world unhinges.

With bleats of incoherence it cries out for human hands
To lift it from the obstacles it never understands.

If you would drain a swamp or merely clean a dusty floor,
The aimless and unthinking are devices to ignore.

To keep your purpose clear and make the mad confusion stop?
Heave out the hapless Roombas and get busy with a mop.

* A robotic vacuum

by Edmund Conti

I married his daughter
And am now in hot water
Which will only get deeper
If I keep her.

Come, darling Ivanka,
Let’s flee to Sri Lanka.
We’ll make it our home.
Ommmmmmmmmmmm . . .

by Julia Griffin

“China bans letter N (briefly) from the internet as Xi Jinping extends grip on power”—The Guardian

Cofrotig Xi Jipig’s itet
(Efarious edeavour!)
To bar ad ba, the Iteret
Itoes: It’s Ow or Ever!