summit up

@twitter won’t fly in Russia,
land of vacuum tubes and vodka.
So steam your press pool
accordingly.
A headline sets in lead:
Talking Titans in Podium Flash
Compare Diminishing Warheads
Total throw-weight crash.

match point

White satin track suit
garlanded gold—
no sweat
beading his head—
our hero cocks
a cool eyebrow
at the loser (confused, staring
into the grass, into
the chalky distance),
who only just a minute ago
was giving not quite
as good as he got.

weekend at bernie's

Padded prison cell,
papered in Ponzi mâché.
Busy bottom bunk.

crown of gold, cross of platinum

“It is finished,”
He must have said
—the fool who felt himself
a boy and crowned himself
King—
expiring alone
in the company of
His Personal Physician.
But all is not lost,
o mourning masses.
The coke-High Priests light candles,
give thanks that He died
—ascending the charts—
so that you may buy
a piece of history and
they may dwell forever
and ever
among the canyons.