Notes on the Trump Trial
Michael Coen
fifty shades of shady
a face like collapsed optimism
Stormy Daniels
Stormy goes for bust
still Stormy after all these years
Judge and Jury
a thankless and dangerous job
The Sketch Artist
star of the show
Michelangelo
with an orange pen
Donald Trump
‘nuff said.
The Day I took my Algorithms for a Walk
A clear day
radio waves
crisscrossing the sky
new messages from new gods
new messengers for the old gods.
A clear day and I’m taking my algorithms
-Spo’fy and N’flix, as I affectionately call them-
for a walk.
You’re probably wondering what an algorithm looks like. Well, that’s why I’ve switched to prose. They are basically stick figures with a series of parallel horizontal lines projecting from their spines, “spinickles”, they are called. They have glass balls for heads. When all the spinickles light up , the glass ball flashes “one”, otherwise it flashes “zero” . They are not great conversationalists as you can imagine but I’m taking them for a walk because I have bones to pick.
“ Hey Spo’fy”, I exclaim, to get things started, “ what’s with all this Dad Rock. I listen to Bad Moon Rising once and I’m inundated with Creedence. Also, please no more Zeppelin, I can’t stand Robert Plant’s voice, way too much bombast. ‘All rock and no roll’ , to quote Keef. Hendrix didn’t like them either!”
Spo’fy turns to me and his glass head starts to scroll the lyrics to Stairway to Heaven.
“Oh, so you’re a comedian now!”.
I turn to N’flix.
“And you” I say in what I think is a measured tone” enough with the romantic comedies. I know the tropes inside out. Unlikely couple falls in love, halfway through the movie they have an argument and break up. They each are comforted by a quirky friend, played by a member or ex-member of the SNL cast. A year later they bump into each other on the street, fall in love again, live happily ever after.”
N’flix turns to me, a circle revolving in the glass ball of his head. It revolves for a minute, then there’s a loud “Tadum”. Then the circle revolves again and one minute later….another “Tadum”!
“Oh, so you’re a comedian too”, I shout, “what’s your stage name – Al Go Riddum?”
A man walking by with a dog stares at me .
The dog barks in the direction of the Algo’s,
the dogs know
the dogs know
two clouds appear in the sky
one with the face of Elon Musk
the other, Bill Gates
if intelligence is artificial
how can we tell what’s real?
I take Spo’fy and N’flix home
they are all grown up now
they have minds of their own.
Taking part in Open Link over at dverse.
Hierarchy
Know your place in society
that used to be a thing
trades around the back
no room at the inn.
Now we have an app
to tell us where we’re at
to locate us, not place us
No, there ain’t no app for that.
The challenge over at dverse is to write a quadrille (44 word poem) about “place”.
Murder at the Plant Sale
The trestle tables covered with plastic table cloths from last year
are fully loaded with potted plants
the coffee is brewing
the kettle is boiling
there is hustle and there is bustle ….
the annual plant sale is about to begin.
And unbeknownst to the organizers
some of whom are wearing rain coats that even Vera would have thrown out,
unbeknownst to the organizers
beneath one of those trestle tables
covered by a tarp and a pile of those black trays used for carrying plant pots
lies the body of a local man called Jeff
seeds already germinating in that gash on his neck.
People will later talk of a heated argument the night before
between Jeff and a member of the committee
something to do with the best time to plant grass
but now he lies unnoticed and the plant sale is in full swing
speaking of Vera…
Doris, the local detective
who watches way too much British crime drama
and who styles herself on Vera
right down to the tatty rain coat and the old jalopy,
receives a tip from an anonymous caller,
something to do with a body at the plant sale.
She arrives when the sale is still in full swing
and the crime scene is beyond contaminated.
“Who’s in charge here?” says Doris.
A burly woman in a tatty raincoat steps forward and says:
“I’m Joan and I’m in charge and you’re on teas,
remember to put the milk in first
or you’ll crack the china”
Doris shows her badge and Joan snorts:
” No discounts, badge or no badge
and it’s cash only.
Also, we have no butter
so tell them they don’t need butter on the scones.”
And Doris thinks:
“This one could take more than one episode to solve.”
Then there’s a milk-curdling scream,
someone has looked under the tarp for more black plastic trays.
The theme music starts…..
Taking part in OpenLink over at dverse.
The Exclusivity of Space
consider the object
consider the space
consider the objects
excluded from the space
ask the question:
is the object occupying the space
worthy of the space
or is the object
a waste of space?
consider the material
forming the space
journey to its origins
in a plantation somewhere
British Columbia, perhaps,
or Brazil
see the tree felled,
shorn of its branches,
loaded on a flatbed truck
with its passive companions
follow the truck
to a paper mill
the size of a small city
see the tree chipped, pulped, processed
see the gases escaping to atmosphere
hear the outfall roar into the river
ask the questions:
are we here to consume?
can we be consumed by consumption?
see the worker arriving home from the mill
to food on the table
a roof above his head
ask the question:
is there only one answer to a question?
return to the space
consider the object.
Edgar and Meaghan
Meaghan loved her job,
the compensation was meager
but that didn’t bother her
what bothered her
was her relationship with Edgar;
she felt beleaguered.
“What the hell is wrong with you”,
Edgar raged, on a regular basis,
and all she could think of was:
Isn’t “raged”
an anagram of Edgar?
This was a response to a Daily Prompt (back in the day), the prompt was “meager”.
Hans
Hans was a sensitive guy
he didn’t have the armory
for solo polyamory
he wanted to marry
settle down
maybe do a bit of farmery
somewhere far away
from the clamor,
the goddamery
of big city life
Tales from the Gym 3
I believe in Gluteanasia
he says, with a casual air
we all groan
a miniature serpent wriggles across the locker room floor
and I’m thinking
Next up is the one about
Gluteus Maximus
the Roman governor.
but no, I’m wrong
I’m reading A Gentleman in Moscow, he says,
by Amor Towles.
Ahh more towels, he says
isn’t that what you say
when room service knocks
on your hotel room door.
and I’m thinking
he really should trim those toe nails.
Taking part in Open Link over at dverse.
strutting like a populist
cocksure, cock of the walk,
ruler of the roost
ready to crow
dawn, or no dawn.
Hacienda Merida (Ometepe)
It’s 5 AM and still dark as the lake
when the rooster starts his clownish complaint
damn pre-emptive cock.
He is quickly joined by the village dogs,
the gecko on the wall behind the bed
birds and more birds
and finally Fiona the donkey
whose hoarse and outraged heehaw
signals she is not ready for another day
tethered to a pole in fickle shade.
Taking part in Open Link over at dverse.
A Tanka for Donald Trump
morning has broken
Donald is talking bollocks,
the sun’s going down
Donald is talking bollocks,
sun comes up, yep, you guessed it.
This was originally titled ” A Tanka for Boris Johnson” but I realized that I could substitute any populist leader with a two syllable first name.
Poetic Ailments
irritable vowel syndrome
arrhythmia
pain in the assonance
acute enjambment
inflammation of the lower case
latinnittus
typographical dysfunction
fear of sonnets
halibunions
ghazalysis
grammaroids
rhymetism
pantoumia
pundruff
and last but not least:
celtic mysteria…
the irrational fear
on entering a room
that someone is going to recite
The Lake Isle of Inisfree
in a plummy, orotund
stage Irish accent.
This poem has been through a number of edits! Taking part in Open Link Night over at dverse.
Yes, Vapid Magazine is back after a long hiatus (I had to look that up). These are vapid times and when the going gets vapid, the vapid get going! Here are some of the highlights from Issue #21.
Is Bot-ulism the end of AI?
Our tech correspondent , Jordan Shallowbyte discusses reports from China about outbreaks of bot-ulism in the robot population. Apparently robot paralysis is rampant. Yes, those robots are in a spot of bot-her. Local scientists are trying to get to the bot-tom of it. They think it may be linked to the ingestion of raw data.
In other tech news, Jordan asks: Are you a victim of Alcorithms ? There are rumors that there are rogue algorithms out there behaving like they have had a few pints over the limit. Yes, if Beethoven starts turning up on your country playlist it may be the work of one of those darn Alcorithms.
In Arts and Entertainment, the indefatigable Georgina Shallowglass asks:
Is Paw Patrol sponsored by the Fossil Fuel Industry?
Think about it, says Georgina, have you ever seen those pups take public transport? Have you ever seen them on a bike? No. Why? Because they each have their own personal motorized vehicle.
Skye has a helicopter for chrissakes.
No vehicle too big no pup too small ! Those pups rev like a canine biker gang. Yep, it’s a cartoon with a big carbon paw print. But help is on the way, Georgina reports that Netflix now offers carbon credits. You can offset that paw print by watching Peppa Pig .
In other entertainment news, Georgina reviews a new French cartoon about a dog called Prenez Le Piss. Prenez leads us on a tour of the lamp posts of Paris, one lamp post per episode. Apparently it’s a leg-raising experience!
Fascinating stuff, Georgina!
And lastly , Charlotte Shallowtrench, our Health and Fitness correspondent and self-styled Influencer Under the Influence discusses the OH Wellness movement. Apparently more and more people are waking up in the morning, looking in the mirror and saying: “Oh well, fuck all I can do about that” and just getting on with their day.
Also Charlotte asks: Are yoga teachers getting too preachy? Give me Downward Dog, she says, and less of that Downward Dogma!
Vapid Magazine: Home of all things Vapid!
For Vapid Magazine submission guidelines click here.
The Dryer Vent Invasion
Last night I dreamt
that Jared Kushner and Stephen Miller
had entered my basement
through the dryer vent,
maybe “entered” is the wrong word
it was more an “insinuation”,
a slithering, under the vent flap
down the plastic vent hose
and into the dryer drum
where they paused briefly
to cough up some lint
before pushing open the dryer door
and oozing out onto the basement floor.
In the morning I went down to check the basement
feeling more than a little anxious.
it was empty, nothing had changed.
I sensed movement
out of the corner of my right eye
I turned, but there was no one there.
I sensed movement
out of the corner of my left eye
I turned, again there was no one there
but there was a smell
not the usual one, from that sock
abandoned at the bottom of my gym bag
this was rancid, pungent, acrid, fetid, halitotic
with a hint of damp weasel…….
the smell of venal ambition.
Jared is back in the news again, so I thought I would give this one another run.
Moon Rant
Here I am
a cheddar searchlight in the sky
waiting for the arrival of man
with his small steps and giant leaps,
his garbage can machines,
his religion, his culture, his competing ideologies,
his self-aggrandizements, his bragging rights, his racism,
his greed, his pomposity, his self-importance,
his astronauts named “Buzz”.
I tell you, colonization never works out for the colonized.
I have no desire to be turned into a destination for space tourists
or a land fill or, more accurately, a moon fill.
What’s in it for me?
Where’s the re-mooneration?
They say that nature abhors a vacuum
well, I can handle a vacuum
it’s vacuity, I abhor.
This is a rework of a previous post prompted by a challengea while back from Sarah over at dVerse to write a piece of prosery, of flash fiction (limit 144 words) incorporating the phrase “I dreamt I was the moon” from a poem by Alice Oswald.
Taking part in Open Link over at dverse.
Mitch McConnell looks back one more time before the ship sails off
Mitch stares in from the murky depths
an oxygen tank strapped to his back,
his lugubrious visage
fills the porthole
he removes his oxygen mask
a bubble escapes from his mouth
and floats upwards
his wattles sway like kelp
in the shifting currents
he has the detached look
of a man examining a museum exhibit
another bubble escapes upwards
he turns and kicks for the surface
his sagging buttocks
pale but somehow luminous
Existential Boogie
I’m sitting in a café
smoking a Gitane
yes, I’m sitting in a café
smoking a Gitane
I’m reading Jean Paul Sartre
and wondering who I am.
Existential boogie
do that existential thing
you can do it in your armchair
summer, autumn, winter, spring.
If you’re looking for an answer
don’t ask Albert Camus
yes, if you’re looking for an answer
don’t ask Albert Camus
that dude’s been dead a long time
he can’t tell you what to do
Existential boogie
do that existential thing
well you can do it in your armchair
summer, autumn, winter, spring
And don’t talk to me
about Immanuel Kant
no, don’t talk to me
about Immanuel Kant
well I know that you want to
but you can’t
Existential boogie
do that existential thing
you can do it in your armchair
summer, autumn, winter, spring
And Rene Descartes said
I think therefore I am
yes, old Rene, he said
I think therefore I am
well, I call that a beginning
I sure don’t call that a plan.
Existential boogie
do that existential thing
you can do it in your armchair
summer,
autumn,
winter,
spring.
Runcible
The other day
I came across the word ‘runcible’
as in ‘runcible spoon’.
The word was invented by Edward Lear
as in ‘The Owl and the Pussycat’.
There is something risible about the word ‘runcible’
as in ‘laughter provoking’
which is different than ‘laughable’,
‘laughable’ has connotations of contempt
as in ‘derisible’ meaning ‘worthy of derision’,
‘derisible’ is almost an anagram of ‘desirable’
but back to ‘runcible’,
there is a great bounce, a great versatility to the word:
he walked out the morning after
humming a runcible tune
he had a runcible air about him
an odour that lingered
long after he had left the room.
the sun rose, red and runcible
in a diffident sky
Cuban Heels
Your high society mistress has long since left your bed
and that Scandinavian seamstress has you hanging by a thread
those so-called glitterati won’t return your calls
and your two-toned Maserati is running on nothing….nothing at all
but when you walk out in the morning
you’ve still got that strut
Cuban heels
nerves of steel
when you walk out in the morning
you’ve still got that strut.
Collective Nounsense
A durante of toucans
A piety of soutanes
A woggle of scouts
A caveat of emptors
A torment of mentors
A loudness of louts
An agenda of schemers
A cumulus of dreamers
A Hamlet of doubts.
A gluttony of omnivores
A shylock of creditors
A flatulence of sprouts
I’m adding verses to this one at the rate of one very 2 years!
Luke 18:25 : “it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God”
Donald Trump enters The Kingdom of Heaven
This is how I’m going to do it, folks,
I’ll build a giant needle,
the biggest, shiniest, pointiest needle
that you have ever seen.
This needle will be so pointy, folks.
Then I’ll get a camel
from Egypt or somewhere like that.
Get the irony ,
me buying a camel.
See, I can do irony
I can be so ironic.
I’ll mount that camel
using my gold escalator,
and ride it
right through the eye of the needle
into the kingdom of heaven
and when I get there, folks,
when I get there
I’m going to make some changes.
Those angels…….
Sitting around on clouds playing harps
for eternity? Give me a break!
Eternity is a long time, folks,
eternity is the longest time….
anyway, where was I..right
those angels are gone, history, outta there
who needs them?
Then I’ll sit down with God
the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.
well maybe not the Holy Ghost,
what is he anyway…a dove? A ghost?
That’s it folks no more Holy Ghost.
Gone, history, outta there.
Who needs him?
Another thing, folks
who’s actually in charge?
Is it the Father or the Son?
Has to be the Father,
can’t let your children run things.
So I’ll sit down with God the Father, folks
and together
we’ll make Heaven great again!
Taking part in Openlink over at dverse.
Thomas the Tanka Engine
that little engine
sure could go and go and go
and go and go and….
yes, it’s all fun and games ‘til
you run out of syllables.
Sorry about that…I’m glad January is nearly over!
The Unbearable Lightness of Verse 3
he was a white rapper
she was a gift wrapper
at Crate and Barrel
they loved that whippersnapper, Jordan Klepper
and the affable, unflappable Jake Tapper
and yes he’s also dapper, that Jake Tapper.
Thought I revive this one, since I’ve started to watch CNN again..
The Ogre at the Gates of Democracy
The Ogre is at the Gates of Democracy
and we….. we are trembling on the ramparts,
armed with water pistols and toy rifles,
back in the castle
our jesters jest
our jesters taunt
our bards sing songs of ridicule
but no one’s fooled.
The Ogre lowers his orange head
and charges once more
behind him the assembled hordes froth and roar
froth and roar
behind him the assembled hordes
froth and roar.
Well, that was all a bit melodramatic, wasn’t it? On the other hand…….. this month The Atlantic magazine devoted a whole issue to the question ” If Trump Wins”; 24 articles in all, predicting the effect of a Trump victory on everything from NATO to anxiety. In addition there’s an essay by Tim Alberta on The Church of America (My father, my faith and Donald Trump). It’s worth buying the magazine for that essay alone, that is if you want to know why White Christian America would embrace a sinner like Trump.
But what got me most about the articles and essays, despite the erudition, insightfulness and eloquence, was that it all seemed like a collective throwing up of the hands; a feeling of despair, failure and powerlessness . I know journalists love a narrative but come on now……and then I thought of Amy Klobuchar who, when in a CNN interview prior to the last election, was asked what she was going to do about the limited number of polling stations in known Democratic Party areas in her state, said that they had it covered, they were organizing buses, rides, they would get people to the polls. In other words, they were organizing, taking action. Analysis can only go so far.
Taking part in OpenLinkNight over at dverse.
That Poetic Hum
That poetic hum
your ear always on the alert
for the cadence in the everyday,
that unconscious internal rhyme
there’s a barber shop on Dunbar Street;
or that line that requires a non sequitur
she was a woman before her time
and you say to everyone’s irritation
in a town lost to time.
Then when you find that seed
that germ of a poem
you are lost to all around –
family, colleagues, friends
your head in the clouds;
and when you poke your head through
the accumulated cumulus
you come face to face
with another poet who says
that last line’s a bugger, eh?
and you say
it most certainly is
it most certainly is.
This is a revision of a previous post.
The Winter Solstice (No Time for Solipsism Now)
Solstice, a sibilant word
except for that L in the middle
lolloping around like a Christmas drunk.
There’s solace in there too.
A compression of days
a primeval huddling against the dark
that low December sun
illuminating the dust under the sofa
and that kid’s toy from last Christmas
that no one could find.
The promise of longer days to come.
Taking part in Brendan’s solstice challenge over at Desperate Poets
Stopdraggingthepanda 