poetry by bill carney
To the Film Industry in Crisis
Today President Pamela Anderson Lee Rock
informed Vice-president Arnold Schwarzenegger
that Secretary of State Gilbert Godried had learned
from Energy Secretary Fresh Prince of Bel Air that
the icecaps were melting, but that did not necessarily mean
anything according to Poet Laureate Bruce Willis
who instead wrote a poem about, something
like Frost's 'Fire and Ice', sort of 'Batman 3 meets Darkness at Noon'
he pitched to himself in a form of poetic t-ball.
'Moon, June, Poon. Loon. Dune, Spoon,' he crooned.
And that's the name of that tune, said Attorney General Robert Blake
to Undersecretary Blake Edwards.
In other news, National Security Adviser and Central Intelligence Director Robert Downey, Jr. was frankly worried about the rumors and whether they were simply the result of sexed up intelligence with so much of the shooting from the hip coming from below the belt these days , while First Minister of the Homeland and Hearth, Mel Gibson, wished to see the rumors in the original Aramaic. '4 more cheers,' said Spinmeister, DJ Jazzy Jeff to Tucker Carlson, his archrival at the Admiralty. It is a beautiful anthem, said our own
Celine Dion, no, 'Au Canada,' let alone 'Oh Calcutta,' but it has a good groove and I wouldn't mind dancing.
The universe is holding an open house
an A frame, bungalow, ranch style split
level the last Mid- century modern
on the receding shoreline, all torqued elipse
and apocalypse made of hammocks and matchsticks.
The stoop in radio evenings allows access
to sunset treks along city sidewalks from
Kalamazoo to Katmandu just like the hippies used to do
hitchhiking through the Fertile Crescent
veiled lands smuggling zippers to the masses,
The belles of Latvia and legendary beauties
of Lithuania, the Hutus and Tutsis, are dancing
frugs and watusies , twisting and swimming
in an unmanned space program across the continents.
The deserts have a meticulous artistry, all part of the plan,
It?s a final stand against the self-righteousness
of unnamed mountains.
There is a soft spot explicitly for the Low Landers, delicious
Eaters of cheese, which puts them closer to Krishna-consciousness.
We welcome the Nanevehians and Hilltoppers too.
We are Close on Sunday
At the movies we spend our chips, watching previews and trailers
Can't decide which, and afterwards it's ice cream sandwiches
The kind the Eskimos eat with a menagerie of stuffed animals
not looking so tough now. We find ourselves castaways
on Mondays in a mylar bi-polar Metropolis renouncing
consumerist capitalism and all his work. Tuesday wasn't
born that way, but it's just as bad, a Janus-faced Iago of hours
but still our hearts are set forward on Wednesday
recklessly synchronized in an impossible mission,
a shower of meteors intent upon a planet of dinosaurs
and why not because the weekend is at once on the horizon.
Let the chips fall where they may! The end is near
like the Oriborus, that most terrible of dinosaurs outwitted by smaller,
craftier egg-stealing mammals. Thursday again potatoes, a plague
of carbohydrates and still Pharaoh's heart is hardened.
I cannot stand to live another day without Friday
absolutely an outpatient with impatience, worn thin,
fortunately it's 'casual' and no one cares what I wear so long
as it is collared and uncolored. It is a world of treachery,
and no one knows this more than Friday, Crusoe's faithful companion.
Sadly, I am beginning to understand just as the week ends.
If every dog has its day I am still unable to decipher w-a-l-k .
Saturday ladies drink for free, Jezebel, Delilah, the lovely flamenca
who calls herself I forget, rule an insatiable night. We stumble
home again close on Sunday.