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Heartland haiku

climate denier:
chill bumps from the brain-freeze drain
the sound of science

Limerick Santorum

There once was a man named Santorum
who stormed the electoral forum.
His primary appeal
was political zeal,
with which for Romney a new one he tore him.

Twitter Conjugation

M. Sarkozy, ecoutez et repetez:
Je twis,
Tu twis,
Il/elle twit
Nous twittons
Vous twittez
Ils/elles twittent

of all the greatest, love

Media
will feed you
a ready steady diet
of pop martyrs –
they’re better than burned out;
forget about the fadeaway.
They shall suffer first
in the public eye
and make us share
the pain.
The artist may be gone
but the business
beats on.

lisbon haiku

A capital E
in desperate search for the
non-existent U

tiger wept

Drop everything.

A man who plays a game
and wears a logo
for a living is going to tell us
his troubles.
"He will be putting from the rough,"
some commentator will surely note,
"I don't think he'll get a gimme."
There will be tears of sincerity
and promises made. Or even kept.
Tiger wept.
Well then who knows where he slept?
I care as much about that
as I do
the swoosh
on
his
hat.

lose-win proposition

vict'ry in defeat--
a hole new direction in
the opposite of spin

roman holiday

It was at Kitzbuhel, not Gstaad
where I saw Polanski--up close--
in a skislope cafeteria line, red snowsuit size small,
sliding slowly along the rails
a tray of wiener schnitzel mit pommes und ketchup
Like Everybody Else.

He had his two young children with him.
Like Everybody Else.

I wanted to say, "Hey, nice work on 'Chinatown'"
but didn't. As usual, faced with a celebrity icon, I fell silent.

Now I remember and think:
Do we forgive a man a heinous crime
because of his art, or because
his life has been filled with tragedy
or because he only did what everybody else
was doing in Jack and Anjelica's Casa California
or because an asshole judge lied to him
or because the French crypto-intelligentsia
says it must be so?

Maybe. But probably not.

gauche caviar

"Is Socialism dead?" my morning headline so screams.
Europe's Left can't get anything right, it seems.
Just when Capitalism is raw red meat for Michael Moore
the only dark specter haunting us is a bore.
Anyway what about "dangerous European Socialism" does America fear:
six weeks vacation, longer life, fitter health, better beer?

poet fuel

awake yet drowsy
an indispensable need:
morning espresso

east side glory

Feelgood proliferation?
Crave some adoration,
a standing ovation
for that rambling oration?
Attention all planets
of the solar federation:
For a general assembly of
Multinational Masturbation,
take your problem to the
Yoo-nighted Nay-aytion.

rhymes with banker

bonus under threat,
white, hot under the collar
in sweat-stained chalk stripe

missile envy

Oh no! An empty silo
into which will echo
unheard wishes for
Europe's protection?

Say it ain't so, O.
Warsaw and Prague
need to know
Nato's got their back.

Don't forget Moscow
plays its hardball cold;
who'll melt the rain when
red snow starts to fall?

play it again

Recession is over, the market is back--
time to get back the Big Mac attack.

Forget whose default, no one's to blame,
hike up your graph is the name of the game.

Who'll pay the bills you may well ax
when no one is willing to pay more tax?

We'll cut waste and fraud, but don't worry hang loose,
we won't take away your precious abuse.

power to ignore

Fasci-nation.
It feeds--and feeds on--
the actions of the asinine.

Resist the temptation--
the need to know more--
and ignore the philistine.

Summon up the will to make
the fake media moment
Simply. Go. Away.

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.