The Ultimate in Shaving
Entry for 2017-12-11

Does God have a beard? Does he shave?
Does Satan trim his goatee?
Or did Lucifer singe the hair on his chin
once and for all eternity
that time when he wouldn't behave?
I'd renounce any number of sins
for indulgence sufficient to see
when God lathers up with a cumulus cloud
while angels, thronged in a mighty crowd,
sing barbershop harmony

Not Enough Indians
Entry for 2017-12-09

Not Enough Indians
Book I


There is a nuclear war, and the only survivors are the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

-- END --

Not Enough Indians
Book II


(Synopsis. There was a nuclear war, and the only survivors were the Joint Chiefs of Staff.)

Chapter I

There is a conventional war, and the only survivors are the Marine Commandant and the Army Chief of Staff.

Chapter II

There is a fight, and the only survivor is the Marine Commandant.

Chapter III

A rash of looting breaks out.

-- END --

The Driver In Front of You
Entry for 2017-12-07

Excerpted from The Hippo in the Fast Lane
He proceeds at the pace of a glacier, blocking your path, holding up all traffic in what used to be called the "fast lane" of the freeway. He wallows in the shadow of a livestock truck in the other lane, side by side, so that neither you nor anyone else can get by.
He is a hippopotamus. He belongs on the Serengeti Plain, where there is room to pass.
Once you have exhausted your catalogue of profanity, scatology, and blasphemy, you fall silent and begin to wonder: who is this person? Where will I meet him again? Will he turn out to be the plumber I call when the pipes break and the water is rising toward the fuse box? Will he be the brain surgeon called on to "rush" to the hospital and control my cerebral hemorrhaging caused by this traffic jam or the next one?

The Little People
Entry for 2017-12-05

All dwarfs,
please report to the wharf.
Monday through Thursday, all gnomes
must remain at home.

control yourselves

listen here. Anyone found
in the tall grass without a pass
will have to disappear

Legends and lives of little people abound.
As long as the brooder peeps,
     we egg hatchers of average stature
can count on having someone to boss around

Executive Committeefolk Dickens, Tolkien,
Melville and the like deploy
and supervise their scattered seed,
their various Pips, their small charges,
through dragonweed jungles, voyages
of lily pad princes on oakleaf barges,
on mythical trips to fasten the fancy on.
Leered on by large witches and small Morlocks,
cheered on by merry Munchkins and Eloi,
go Chicken Little, Red Riding Hood, Tom Thumb,
Bilbo, Frodo, Pinnochio, Tiny Tim,
the wee folk and the hollow tree folk,
elves of the Lilliputian pantheon,
people of P.S. 9 and the brothers Grimm,
those stunted devils and runt angels
who teach each other little lessons
on small virtues and flyspeck dangers,
terribly tiny tragic flaws and taints
such as, eek, speaking to strangers,
strike large poses since everyone knows
those are the prize sizes
the trumpeter blows and the painter paints

Big Miss Muffet sits on a throne
eating whatever she damn well pleases,
including whoever sits down beside her.
The spider leaves her alone.

One Education
Entry for 2017-12-03

I was told I was important.
I was told I had a soul.

I was taught it is required
to have poetry in one's soul.

I was taught there is no soul.

I was told one is admired
if his poetry has soul.

I was taught there is no poetry.

There is nothing, I was told,
but to age and then to die.

I have learned that teachers lie.

I have learned I am important.
I have pictures of my soul.

I believe I live forever.

I am very young and gullible,
I believe all I am told,
I've amassed a hoard of theories,

I have written many poems
and marveled at how quickly
they grow old