Tuesday, September 1, 2015

September at Last - Poem



Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

September at Last

A dawn under clouds – September at last
No one longs for August, or misses it
The heat and humidity linger still
But the mythology of the calendar

Has drawn the summer’s metaphorical fangs
And grownups now anticipate cold fronts
Like children who know that Christmas will come
Although the season seems to be taking

Its own sweet time in bringing home its gifts
Of chilly mornings, and geese winging south

The Apocalyptic Wasp Spray of Cosmic Doom



Mhall46184@aol.com

The Apocalyptic Wasp Spray of Cosmic Doom

As with rattlesnakes, fire ants, and presidential candidates, the purpose of wasps within the glory of Creation is a great mystery.

Big red Communist wasps, their wicked, batlike wings pulsating slowly to the degenerate rhythm of a pagan blood-song of pain, lurk in porch corners - or along any of Donald Trump or Scott Walker’s Berlin walls - and then attack with a sting as painful and bitter as a glare of disapproval from a poll watcher from the other party who sees you voting in The Wrong Primary.

As the old hippie song does not say: Wasps! Unh! What are they good for!? Absolutely nothin’!

And if the county agricultural extension agent tells you that wasps are a beneficent species because they blah, blah, blah, she’s probably a Fascist or something. So there. Tell me something. End of. And stuff. And other logical rebuttals.

Real Americans buy aerosols of toxic poisons for sending wasps to the Grendel-doom they’ve earned. If the environment must be destroyed in order that wasps die, that’s a fair and reasonable exchange.

Usually the sprays work, but sometimes the wasps fly insolently away, unimpressed with better dying through chemistry.

What this world needs is a really good wasp spray. The ideal wasp spray would not kill wasps instantly, though. Oh, no. The perfect bug bomb would send each wasp spinning down like The Red Baron in flames, thudding to the ground still alive but dying in such gruesome (or is that grueful?) pain that the progressive Renaissance practice of hanging, drawing, and quartering would seem like a walk in the mall.

The American consumer wants that wasp to feel the soul-destroying existential despair of a freshman football player at the University of Tennessee at Knoxville when he (or “zhe”) is told that the name of his (or “zher”) team has been changed from The Tennessee Volunteers to The Incredible Edible Eloi.

The dying wasp must wallow in the same agony as a traveler doomed to wander throughout eternity the wretched-hive-of-scum-and-villainy hallways of Newark International Airport.

The dying wasp must be made to feel the ghostly chill that reduces even the bravest, strongest young manly-man into a quivering emotional puddle when he arrives at school on Monday morning and suddenly remembers that he is scheduled to take an algebra II exam at 0800.

The dying wasp must experience total bleakness of spirit as he realizes in his last moments that, just like a Republican in the summer of 2015, his life suddenly has no meaning after all. And that’s really hairy.

The dying wasp must sob in spasms of grief and sorrow, rather like a hungry child standing in line for her Michelle Obama lunch.

The dying wasp must be made to scream in horror like an ear-banging-hammer-metal-scum-rock DJ who finds that he is scheduled to work the three-day All Lovin’ Spoonful All The Time Festival.

Anyone who has ever applied cold compresses to a swollen, wasp-stung ear can only wonder why wasps were allowed to board the Ark and unicorns were not.

We need a meaner wasp spray.

-30-

Thursday, August 27, 2015

Make America Change and Hope Yet Again



Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

Make America Change and Hope Yet Again

Roderick Spode: “…this great country can go forward once more to glory!...Citizens…I say to you that nothing stands between us and our victory except defeat! Tomorrow is a new day! The future lies ahead!”

Man in audience: “You know, I never thought of that.”

-Jeeves and Wooster

Just like poor Charlie Brown believing, despite humiliating experience, that this time Lucy is not going to snatch away that football, the American people believe, over and over, that this time they’ve got a candidate. But again and again their football of happiness is snatched away - by Senator Clinton, Governor Christie, Senator Cruz, and a series of other Lucy Van Pelts.

As John Keats did not say, where are the candidates of spring? Ay, where are they?

They are gone, lost down the Orwellian Memory Hole along with pet rocks, the End of the World in 1999, the Hale-Bopp Comet spaceships, the End of the World in 2000, Jade Helm ninjas, the End of the World some other time, unmarked UN helicopters, the End of the World yet again, the Central Texas Disney World, the End of the World we really mean it this time, global-warming, the End of the World this September 13th, and those buckets of magic ice water that were said to cure disease.

Quick – who were the candidates who stood against George H. W. Bush in the primaries? Who was Bill Clinton’s first pick for vice-president? Who were the big noises for each political party only last June?

The current big noise promises to make America great again – just like all the other big noises since George Washington.

As a modest contribution to the low-Prole unreality show that by populist acclamation has replaced thinking in this nation, here is a matrix of well-used terms, some of them quite international, for future presidential campaign slogans. Read them, and then follow the instructions below for each candidate who is really going to save us this time, just like that last one, and the one before that, and the one before:

We are the people we are the 99% transparency we shall triumph the whole world is watching make American great again sustainable forward together hope and change long live our glorious leader the buck stops here remember the Maine power to the people no war but class war Le Québec aux Québécois justice for everyone je suis Charlie it’s Scotland’s oil heim ins reich every man a king Ross for boss change we can believe in si se puede bread and roses me no frego let’s keep fighting for progress Peron o muerte where’s the beef? reigniting the promise of America not just peanuts he’s making us proud again kinder gentler nation for people a new American century time for a change it’s time to change America integrity vote for change commitment honest putting people first building a bridge to the 21st century in your heart you know he’s right a time for greatness to begin anew peace and prosperity a revolution is coming happy days are here again he kept us out of war fighting for us rum Romanism and rebellion go Greens turn the rascals out forward the people’s president a green new deal for America had enough? strength and experience reform prosperity and peace drill baby drill America first country first hope let America be America again taking America back vote for leadership a real choice for America defeat the Washington machine unleash the American dream a safer world and a more hopeful America tea party working for America the choice is clear a stronger America prosperity and progress compassionate conservatism leadership for the new millennium we can’t wait everyday Americans need a champion I want to be that champion from hope to higher ground the people united will never be defeated bread and freedom a chicken in every pot I’ll build a wall it’s time for a change death to world capitalism greater together.

And stuff.

Cut up this scribble into individual words. Dump all of them into a gimme cap. Pull any four words out of the cap. Have those four words stitched onto the cap. Practice saying the words over and over while taking selfies. And there you are, all ready for Campaign 2016 for any political party you choose.

-30-


Poets are Remarkably Silent on the Subject of Wrenches - poem



Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Poets are Remarkably Silent on the Subject of Wrenches

In life one suffers many twists and turns
And this is why one takes a wrench in hand
And turns the good things forward, the bad things back
When mending broken gadgets, lives, or hopes
So take the wrench, and turn the twist aright
Or take the wrench, and twist the turn aright
And spiral something beautiful into being
Because, as a worthy Marine might say,
This is a wrench. There are many like it
But this one is in the hands of an artist

Hurricane Tracks - Two Poems



Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Hurricane Tracks

What if your life were a hurricane map
Available upon a glowing screen
Or as a supermarket paper handout
With all of life gridded into neat squares

You then would know exactly what to do
And where to go, predicated upon
The latest scientific spaghetti
Curved colored strings ordering you aright

But you are free not to follow the lines
Because your life is not a gridded map




Hurricane Tracks – The Kirk Briggs Variant

What if your life were a hurricane map
Available upon a glowing screen
Or as a supermarket paper handout
With all of life gridded into neat squares

You then would know exactly what to do
And where to go, predicated upon
The latest scientific spaghetti
Curved colored strings ordering you aright

But you are free not to follow…oh…wait:
You could also stall, strengthen, or fizzle out!

The Palmer Method of Child Cruelty - a poem



Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Palmer Method of Child Cruelty

Left-handed children will write prettily
To Old Lady Stalin’s specifications
When Buna, Texas freezes over – twice
Or wicked Palmer rises from the dead

“Why can’t you write neatly, like your brother?
Just look what a chicken-scratch you’re making
You’ll stay in from recess and write it over
And don’t you waste so much paper this time…”

No stories, no thoughts, only soulless curves
Left-handed children will write angrily

Corporal Himmelstoss - A Poem About the Office



Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Corporal Himmelstoss

Oh, yes, we all know Corporal Himmelstoss
That dutiful office functionary
Bully and thief, master of the resume’
Keeper of the entrance to the boss-cave
A creature of fluorescent lights, a worm
Obsequious above, brutal below
The listener at doors, the writer of reports
The examiner of secrets and lies
The administrator of loyalty oaths
Oh, yes, we all know Corporal Himmelstoss

Two Cups of Coffee - a poem



Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Two Cups of Coffee

Two lovers surely sat here long ago
One evening early, as the winter rain
Slid down the windows like children at play
The raindrops teasing and chasing each other;

Across the table shyly flirting eyes
A little bit unsure, a little bit lost -
But happily so – they also teased and played
As softly as the winter’s window-mist

Two lovers surely sat here long ago
“Yes, sugar, please,” she said. “How did you know?”

The First Lesson in Diplomacy - poem



Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

The First Lesson in Diplomacy

A fountain pen cannot be monitored
By frightened Norks at ranks of glowing screens
Or hipster graduates of M.I.T.
Submissive to their way-cool boy-gods

A sheet of paper never breaks an oath
Or whispers carelessly across the sky
A bottle of ink stands firm upon your desk
And knows all secrets only ‘til they dry

A fountain pen cannot be monitored
So take it up, and not that spying ‘phone

High-Tuned Little Magazine of Little Poetry - poem



Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

High-Tuned Little Magazine of Little Poetry

Negates stultifying silencing I
Originary events negate me
Bible Belt culture of racism I
Nuanced imperialist grappling we
Compelled surrounding culture footnote I
Grew the poetry community me
Identify attitudes impulse I
Literally typically dismissed we
Cursory recurring dismissal I
Imbalanced anemic valuing I

Who is That Absurd Old Man? - a poem



Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Who is That Absurd Old Man?

Who is that old man in the looking-glass
That absurd old man with the puffy face
And thinning hair, more grey than anything
Whence came that wobbly chin, those hairy ears?

The face in the mirror is supposed to be
Narrow and sharp, with lots of tousled hair
Falling over bright and healthy eyes
Eagerly greeting the morning of life

But this is no matter – lift high the blade
(Rotary now) and with it challenge the dawn!

Monday, August 17, 2015

Pretty Klan Girls - Poem



Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Pretty Klan Girls

Three girls, three teenaged girls, three giggling girls
So fresh and lovely in their springtime prints
A daring bit of makeup, hair just right
At early breakfast with their moms and dads
But sitting at a separate table so
Their youthful giddiness does not disturb
The adults’ serious, prayerful conversation
Over coffee in the no-smoking area
Three girls, three teenaged girls, three giggling girls
All pretty for the rally later today

Elias and the Broom Tree - Poem



Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Elias and the Broom Tree

Asleep beneath a broom tree in Judaea
A man brought low, and lost among the waste
Stopped there to die, exhausted and alone
In refuge from a queen’s pursuivants
But in a little while a Messenger
Unseen will leave a gift of water and of bread
Food for a journey to the Mountain of God
But now, for now, for a few healing hours
Guarded in holy silence, only a man
Asleep beneath a mysterious Tree

Who is That Absurd Old Man? - Poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Who is That Absurd Old Man?

Who is that old man in the looking-glass
That absurd old man with the puffy face
And thinning hair, more grey than anything
Whence came that wobbly chin, those hairy ears?

The face in the mirror is supposed to be
Narrow and sharp, with lots of tousled hair
Falling over bright and healthy eyes
Eagerly greeting the morning of life

But this is no matter – lift high the blade
(Rotary now) and with it challenge the dawn!

The Ninja Jade Helm Dinner Roll of Flying Death

Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Ninja Jade Helm Dinner Roll of Flying Death

South of Springfield, Missouri, in the little town of Ozark, the hungry traveler will find Lambert’s Café, where the staff throw dinner rolls. There are two other Lambert’s Cafes, one in Sikeston, Missouri and another in Foley, Alabama, where more rolls are thrown.

And why do the waiters and waitresses at Lambert’s throw dinner rolls?

Because throwing green peas just won’t work.

Except for one-year-olds. A one-year-old can fling a mean cloud of peas.

Lambert’s is a highway-side establishment cluttered with the usual garage-sale debris tacked to the walls and which serves good, honest, industrial-strength-cholesterol road food. Lots of cafes do just that, so to stand out Lambert’s bills itself as The Home of the Throwed Roll. The diner who wishes another dinner roll catches the waiter’s eye and holds up a hand. The waiter then skillfully tosses a roll for the patron to catch. Your ‘umble scrivener has dined at Lambert’s. He caught his second dinner roll (hey, the first one was a bad pitch, okay?) without bodily harm, and can testify that it’s all good, low-prole merriment.

Naturally, Lambert’s is being sued by a customer who was brutally mauled by a ninja jade helm dinner roll of flying death.

The complainant alleges a catalogue of head injuries just short of decapitation. Apparently Lambert’s light, fluffy dinner rolls are really stealth gluten toxic death bombs.

Grievously wounded by a poof of flour and air, the diner went all Donald Trumpy hissy-fitty and demanded the cost of a new car instead of dessert. After all, she could not possibly have read the signs about the “throwed” rolls or have seen the aerial celebrations of the in-house baker’s art flying as gracefully through the air as spring butterflies.

One is reminded of the story, some years ago, of the high school girl who sued for a spot on the football team and then sued again because a blocker on the opposing team knocked her down during a game. Her grounds for the second lawsuit were that no one had told her she could get hurt playing football.

But to be taken down by a dinner roll - oh, the humanity.

Thank goodness the weapon wasn’t something heavier and sharper, such as a marshmallow.

Lambert’s might need to place warnings on its dinner rolls: “The Surgeon General of the State of Missouri has determined that food is dangerous to your health.”

Think of a carbohydrate movie treatment: Sergeant Preston and his husky King keep Canada safe for the Empire with just a dog sled and a buttered croissant.

Or Casablanca: “Get away from that ‘phone! I was willing to fling an English muffin at Captain Reynaud and I’m willing to fling an English muffin at you!”

Hunters will have to pass day-long bread safety courses before they can legally take to the woods with a biscuit.

The United States Senate, aka The Marx Brothers and Sisters, will hold hearings on the racism of flinging dinner rolls made of white flour.

Many businesses do not lend themselves to the concept of flinging. Auto parts come to mind: “Hey, Joe, here’s your new exhaust manifold…catch!”

Or children’s health clinics: “Okay, kids, who wants to play dodge-the-flu-shots?”

Many people take up hobbies that feature some element of danger: skydiving, mountain climbing, skiing, motorcycling, and beating Vladimir Putin at chess come to mind. But no one would have thought of the lurking menace (cue the Jaws shark music), the raw, savage, blood-crazed, edge-of-your-seat terror in asking the waitress for another dinner roll.

-30-



Wednesday, August 12, 2015

It Begins With an Unreferenced Pronoun - Poem



Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

It Begins With an Unreferenced Pronoun

That which is not winding down is gearing up
Then said to be however under way
Exciting year anticipates even better
Rekindling old friendships short enjoyable
Forward to the high school cafeteria
Another great please plan to join and look
Begin another year preparing it
To seeing you has convocation it
Committed to excellence each of you
That which is not gearing down is winding up

A U-Haul Box - Poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com


A U-Haul Box

A cardboard U-Haul box is a time machine
Which stores the years in careless unity
A lonely chessman lost and wandering
Along the childhood lanes of Candyland
Next to a napkin from the senior prom
Some keys that don’t seem to fit anything
And an unlabeled videocassette
Of a cousin’s wedding in ‘89
Old pens, old plates, old dreams, old high-school jeans:
A cardboard U-Haul Box is a time machine

Monday, August 10, 2015

Lions and Dentists and Trumps, Oh, My!



Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

Lions and Dentists and Trumps, Oh, My!

The world remains outraged over the death of Trevor the Hairpiece. Trevor, beloved of everyone in the U.S.A., was slaughtered by a dentist from Zimbabwe who hired two local guides to help him in his search for a prize hairpiece to kill, kill, kill.

The alleged hair murderer is Dr. James Mbiriri, an orthodontist from Harare. Dr. Mbiriri is unavailable for comment, and his office is closed until further notice.

Reports from Iowa indicate that the guides, Megyn and Roger, lured Trevor the Hairpiece from Donald Trump’s head by bribing a disgruntled lone wolf rogue stylist taking secret orders from Chewbacca the Wookie through a secret radio transceiver in the basement of the Vatican barber shop. Once Mortimer was outside the otherwise empty crawlspace, Dr. Mbiriri cruelly dispatched the poor hairpiece with the little scissors of his Swiss Army Knife despite Trevor’s tearful rendition of the title song from Hair.

Trevor the Hairpiece died a slow, agonizing death, sort of like veterans waiting for the government to do right by them.

School children all over the world are crayoning tearstained pictures of their hero and inspiration, Saint Trevor the Hairpiece. Their parents are lining up outside stores to buy Trevor the Hairpiece backpacks and Trevor the Hairpiece pencils and crayons for the new school year.

In Paris the obedient sort of people who wear Che Guano tees are chanting “Je suis Trevor the Hairpiece!”

The Cackling Woman Cookery Show on The Gourmand Channel has gone dark in mourning, and its angel-hair spaghetti is being flown at half-mast for thirty minutes or until the rinse-and-set is complete.

In response to the hairpiece crisis the State of Texas has directed all appraisal districts to raise property taxes again.

Dr. Mbiriri’s selfie of himself and the trophy hairpiece has gone as viral as pouring buckets of ice water over secret Jade Helm ninjas skulking in the dark corridors of an abandoned Wal-Mart atop Bald Mountain.

Protestors have blockaded the Swiss embassy in Harare and are tying stuffed toy Trevors to the fence in that all-purpose response to anything, a makeshift shrine, which is of course a contradiction. When a reporter for the ZBC asked a demonstrator if she could define the term makeshift the demonstrator filed charges of insensitivity against ZBC. “We’re outraged that Switzerland promotes violence to free-range hairpieces all over the world through its obscene manufacture of itty-bitty pocket knives with ittier-bittier scissors, and the ZBC are interrupting my script with an appeal to rationality!” she shrieked.

According to Poncy Tworbst, BA, MA, Certified Grief Counselor, and Ordained Holistic Aromatherapist, consultant to The Times of Zimbabwe, “This is another example of a privileged supremacist hirsutest imposing his tonsorial appropriation occupation syncopation centrist views on a primitive culture, Iowa, through his psychologically dubious quest for trophy follicles.”

The Speaker of the Parliament of Zimbabwe has called for hearings, ‘net mobs have called for the extradition of a Zimbabwean citizen to the U.S.A. based on ‘net gossip, and the Minister of Defence has called for every commander to confiscate all scissored pocket knives from Zimbabwean soldiers and airmen.

In his morning minute Tim Brocaw said “I, I, I, me, me, me was once among hairpieces when I, I, I was a barefoot all-American lad in West Dakota. I am not a bad hairdo, but I, I, I am honored to have lived among them, and I, I, I am so special and aw-shucks cute.”

The Church of Elvis is re-naming itself The Church of Trevor the Hairpiece, and new streets will be named for Trevor. Every morning all really sensitive Zimbabweans will pledge allegiance to Trevor-ness, and statues of so-last-week Zimbabwean heroes will be pulled down and replaced with memorials to Trevor the Great. There will be Trevor the Hairpiece Editions of the Bible with commentaries by Trevor the Hairpiece in the margins. The peoples of the world will unite in perpetual adoration of Trevor the Hairpiece, and will forswear all food because rainbows, sunshine, and gluten-free air are all humanity needs for nutrition and for holistic dental care.

The relics of Saint Trevor will be enshrined in St. Ambrose’s Cathedral in Iowa City. A basilica will be built over the site of his martyrdom, and will be consecrated by Rosie O’Donnell with a Sacred Liturgical Twerking of the Salisbury Rite of Rebuke Against the Trumpness.

All hairpieces everywhere will be allowed to roam wild and free in their natural habitat, and will not be murdered by greedy humans looking for a hair-raising thrill.

Justice for Trevor the Hairpiece! The ‘Net Mob demands it!

And justice for murdered children? Still no word on that.

-30-


Sunday, August 9, 2015

English and Celtic Poets - a Poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com


English and Celtic Poets

A Sassenach assembles words and lines
In order, disciplined, like hammer-falls
Upon reluctant steel in armories
The beat and off-beat in formation set

A Celt sings challenges carelessly into the eagle-skies
To soar among the storms in sorrow and in joy
Laughing among full cups of heathery vowels
Claidheamh-mor swinging against blank verse in English helmets

An Englishman sends words to fight and work
A Celt persuades wild words to fight and dream

Secret Stuff the Presidential Candidates Will Not Say

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Secret Stuff the Presidential Candidates Will Not Say

Governor Perry – “Every American should be free to conceal-carry a carton of Blue Bell in church or in a cinema.”

Senator Sanders – “Free love! Free Blue Bell for the masses! In Commie-Red flavors! Us old hippies rock.”

Donald “The Hair” Trump – “All the problems in America are caused by illegal Ben and Jerry’s ice cream swarming across our sacred borders! And Governor Perry looks professional in his new eyeglasses. And, okay, let the veterans have some Blue Bell. And the little cracker.”

Governor O’Malley – “Sure, faith ‘n’ begorrah, just what American needs, meself, another faux Irishperson who wouldn’t know Guinness from Pim’s Ale. Like, sure, I was in an Irish band, sure, only not in Ireland, sure. When I’m elected Taioseach the ice cream will be Green Bell, not Blue Bell, sure. But all ice cream matters! Wait…maybe not…”

Governor Christie – “We’re gonna make Blue Bell an offer it can’t refuse. Otherwise, I gotta bridge with Blue Bell’s name on it. But please tell me more; I want to listen to different points of view.”

Senator Webb – “Blue Bell and the Marines – Semper Fi all the way!”

Governor / Reverend Huckabee - “I’m a-pickin’ and I’m a-grinnin’ with my hillbilly band and my Blue Bell.”

Governor Thompson – “Blue Bell is on strike. I don’t like that.”

Senator Cruz – “Okay, I don’t know if I’m Catholic, Baptist, Cuban, American, or Canadian, but I know I’m a Blue Bell. Or whatever Daddy says this week.”

Senator Paul – “Me too.”

Senator / Secretary Clinton – “Blue Bell!? Ben and Jerry’s!? WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE!?!?!?!?!?”

Senator Rubio – “You know, as a people of faith we can come together over Blue Bell, Hagen-Daz, or Ben and Jerry’s, because, really, it’s all pretty much the same. Just as long as we all like ice-cream.”

Governor Jindal – “I like the alligator-flavored Blue Bell.”

Shawna Sterling – “No GMOs in Blue Bell!”

Senator Rubio – “Blue Bell in Margaritaville!”

Governor Bush – “Open borders for Blue Bell!”

Senator Graham – “Blue Bell, y’all.”

Carly Fiorina – “In my spreadsheets Blue Bell adds up. Most of the time.”

Dr. Carson – “I prescribe Blue Bell for all my patients.”

Governor Kasich – “If you like your Blue Bell, you can keep your Blue Bell. Maybe. Kinda. Sorta.”

Y’know, we don’t have any Blue Bell ice cream in this country just now but we sure have a stockyard full of mooing presidential candidates. Things’ll be better when Blue Bell is back.

-30-

Sunday, August 2, 2015

A New Shirt - Poem



Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

A New Shirt

Shirts are nice. They cover your funniness
Almost no one looks good without a shirt
Especially when you’re old and parts don’t fit
Quite like they did (listen to your looking-glass)
A store-new shirt is one of life’s little joys
You pull away the plastic clips and floof
The fabric out among its new-shirt smell
And praise yourself for your excellent taste
The cuffs and collar fold exactly right
And you look good today in your new shirt

The Death of Mortimer the Tomato



Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Death of Mortimer the Tomato

The world remains outraged over the death of Mortimer the Tomato. Mortimer, beloved of everyone in England’s fens country, was slaughtered by an American vegan who hired two local guides to help him in his search for a prize tomato to kill, kill, kill.

The alleged murderer is Neville (Rockin’ Nev) Thistletwit, an inspirational singer-songwriter from New Orleans. Rockin’ Nev is unavailable for comment, and his former space on Jackson Square is currently occupied by Madame Zumba Sees All Knows All Astrologer to the Stars.

Reports from Peterborough indicate that the guides, Bert and Alf, lured Mortimer the Tomato from his sheltered bin by paying off a greengrocer with two pounds and ten pence. Once Mortimer was outside the shop, Rockin’ Nev cruelly dispatched the poor veggie (yes, yes, technically a tomato is a berry) with his Swiss Army Knife despite Mortimer’s erudite existential arguments about the circle of vegetative art.

Mortimer the Tomato died a slow, agonizing death, sort of like television network news.

School children all over the world are crayoning tearstained pictures of their hero and inspiration, Saint Mortimer the Martyred Tomato.

In Paris the sort of people who wear Che Guano tees are chanting “Je suis Mortimer the Tomato!”

The Cackling Woman Cookery Show on The Gourmand Channel has gone dark in mourning, and its quiches are being flown at half-mast for thirty minutes or until the crust is a delicious flakey brown.

In response to the tomato crisis the State of Texas directed all appraisal districts to raise property taxes again.

Rockin’ Nev’s selfie of himself and his lunch has gone as viral as junior high hallway gossip.

Protestors have blocked the Swiss embassy in London and are tying stuffed toy Mortimers to the fence in that all-purpose response to anything, a makeshift shrine, which is of course a contradiction. When one reporter asked a demonstrator if she could define the term shrine she filed charges of insensitivity against him. “We’re outraged that Switzerland promotes violence all over the world through its obscene manufacture of itty-bitty pocket knives, and you are interrupting my script with an appeal to rationality!” she shrieked.

According to Poncy Tworbst, BA, MA, Certified Grief Counselor, and Ordained Holistic Aromatherapist, consultant to Ferret News, “This is another example of a privileged supremacist vegan imposing his horticultural appropriation occupation syncopation vegicentrist views on a poor part of the world through his psychologically dubious quest for a trophy lunch.”

The Speaker of the House of Merovingians has called for hearings, ‘net mobs have called for the extradition of an American citizen based on ‘net gossip, and the Secretary of Defense has called for every commander to confiscate all provocative pocket knives from American sailors and soldiers.

That’s how we Americans roll – in every crisis we call for stuff.

In his morning minute Tim Brocaw said “I, I, I, me, me, me was once among tomatoes when I, I, I was a barefoot all-American lad in West Dakota and I, I, I am so special and aw-shucks cute.”

The Church of Elvis is re-naming itself The Church of Mortimer Tomato, and new streets will be named for Mortimer. Every morning all really sensitive Americans will pledge allegiance to Mortimer-ness, and statues of so-last-week American heroes will be pulled down and replaced with memorials to Mortimer the Great. There will be Mortimer the Tomato Editions of the Bible with commentaries by Mortimer the Tomato in the margins. The peoples of the world will unite in perpetual adoration of Mortimer the Tomato, and will forswear all food because rainbows, sunshine, and gluten-free air are all we really need for nutrition.

The relics of Saint Mortimer will be enshrined in Peterborough Cathedral. A basilica will be built over the site of his martyrdom, and will be consecrated by Kim Lohan with a sacred twerking.

All tomatoes everywhere will be allowed to roam wild and free in their natural habitat, and will not be murdered by filthy humans looking for an ego-boosting salad.

Justice for Mortimer the Tomato! The ‘Net Mob demands it!

And justice for murdered children? Nahhh.

-30-

Heat Stress



Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com


Heat Stress

Now summer is a song without any words
Though midday silence in the dancing heat
Is music enough in this stasis time
When nothing moves across the face of noon
Not even an errant breeze to whisper hope
In the sun-blown desolation of July
Thus silence descants restless rests among
Notes fallen from a hymnal that was lost
Among the weeds and dust where once were dreams
But summer is a song without any words

Heat Inversion


Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com


Heat Inversion

Summer collapses in upon itself
Inversions of thought wandering in the heat
Beaten into confusion’s minorpiece
As the planet orbits, wobbles, and spins
Like Icarus saucily taunting the sun
With importunities and insolence
Until a solar roar of outrage sends
Frail featherings of imagination
Falling into dizzying nothingness as
Summer collapses in upon itself

Back-to-School Shopping



Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Back-to-School Shopping

Electronics and ear-buds on display
New jeans and tees, and the most-happening shoes
Tennis rackets and shorts for every day
Maybe even academic tattoos
Jewelry, sunglasses, feathers for one’s hair
Che Guano’s mug shot on a size small shirt
Cool Mickey ‘n’ Minnie themed underwear
A Class Of XX nose ring (that’s gotta hurt!

And that’s the latest faculty look

But no one ever dreams of buying a book

Dresscrossing - Poem



Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Dresscrossing

When asked if s/he were a transvestite
S/he replied, “Oh, no, that’s not right;
I’m English, and so a transwaistcoatite.”

Fete de la Raison



Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Fete de la Raison

Personhood is the measure of a Lamborghini
Along with self-identification
The authentic voice of the marginalized
Because science can now work wonders these days
Only not with your crackers and grape juice
If you are told the sun rises in the west
Follow the sensitive conversation
Body parts. Who will buy my body parts
Freshly sexed-up pancreas for sale
Stuff is now the measure of personhood

A Frivolous Reflection on Power Cords



Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

A Frivolous Reflection on Power Cords

Electrical cords are marvelous things
They slither voltaically without wings
To drag resistant ohms out of the walls
Then digest them along to light the halls
Make radios talk and tellys light up
And heat the coffee for a coffee cup
And make refrigerators thermodyme
AC in rhythmic Isaac Newton time
Lights all alight and a doorbell that rings:
Electrical cords are marvelous things