Cosmologists, driven to explain things,
Frequently confuse theories with facts.
From carvings on cave walls, they moved to wings
Of angels, discovered math, grew abstract.
Copernicus (smart monk!) ran the numbers;
Galileo verified (with prudence).
Slick measurement followed, unencumbered
By churchly constraint. Then clever students
Found expansion—unruly expansion.
Lemaître, Hubble solved it all for us.
One horrific blast—that’s how it began.
Forget those biting questions—don’t fuss!
Bloated by gassy meals—tasteless, but tart—
God let go that Big Bang, that Cosmic Fart!
(8/2/10)
For H.C.
This guy down at the paddle tennis courts
Is both smart and likable—not always
An easy mix. An ad-man, he contorts
Truth for a living, spews those noxious brays
That sting innocents on ev’ry part.
Neither nets, repellent, nor solitude
Shelter us from his strident, piercing art.
Nonetheless, he’s a witty, welcome dude.
Here’s why: though rich from making victims feel
They gotta have the nonsense he promotes,
Those self same “gottas” never make him reel,
Never sail across his synaptic moat.
The secret of his own serenity?
“‘Gotta’ is life’s profoundest enemy.”
(7/29/10)
The ceremony must be found
Traditional, with all its symbols
Ancient as the metaphors in dreams;
“Speaking of Poetry,” John Peale Bishop
Life—inundated by gray drudgery—
Brightens from time to time in the sunlight
Of ceremony. History’s carnage—
For some few holy moments—put to flight
While we revel in joy—birthdays, weddings,
Anniversaries; while we flagellate
Ourselves, anxious to throw off baleful sins.
Life’s murky dread clears, anticipates
Fruit, ripe for ceremonial plucking!
But as for ancient metaphors in dreams
(Visions of flying high, falling, fucking)—
Better to settle for more earthly schemes.
It’s time to fashion some new traditions—
End weird, ancient, god-decreed commissions
Like that first ceremonial magic,
When adults sip schnaps, munch honeyed cakes, lick
Lips, while infants lose a quarter inch of dick!
(7/26/10)
This week’s special pain is sciatical;
It comes and it goes quite sporadical.
And (however crass),
This pain in the ass
Suffices to make me viatical.
Now stretching, I’m told, intercedes,
And properly done creates ease.
But it’s not a cinch—
The horrible pinch
Makes treatment far worse than disease.
Synapses are like a bad loan,
For years they give life all its tone.
But age intervenes,
Decays all your genes,
Forecloses, leaves nothing but moans.
(7/4/10)
For S.S., M.B., and J.?.
Sure, pouches and wrinkles abound—
Some evil, some neutral, some sound.
For young kangaroos, pouches warm,
Give shelter from life’s prickly thorns.
And Wrinkles in Time might deploy
Events that would generate joy.
Those pouches that form under eyes,
Could signal impending demise.
And wrinkles that pop out on brows
Attest to the strain of life’s vows.
But pouches and wrinkles in guts
Maliciously drive people nuts—
Cause flaming pain. Diagnosis?
Acute diverticulosis!
(7/3/10)
For S.S.
Don’t fret about the Jabberwock,
There’s little left to fear.
Beware that slender winding tool
Shoved up your tender rear!
Humiliation’s bad enough,
But colonoscopies
Top that gross list of doctor’s tricks
While hunting for disease.
Yards of flexed metal tube invade,
Displaying for TV
Those private passageways where light
Was never meant to be!
And yet, sometimes discomfort works—
They find, and snip, and trim
Away the schmutz that threatens you,
And make you whole again!
(6/29/10)
