No Legend Today

No legend today!
No legend today!
No legend today!

The tower is silent
Like Mortimer Stilent
Who only exists
To make that line rhyme.

The curtain has fallen
Like poor Flora Pallen
Who was pushed off a cliff
By Fiona the mime.

The chaos is stiller
Than Ms. Penelope Diller
Who dallies most still-ly
In loiterish crime.

And as for the chorus
We hope you adore us
For appearing just long enough
To utter this line.

On the Purpose of Global Warming and Human Existence, in Light of a Compassionate God

Sometimes the calliope plays soft performances on its own to fill a temporarily empty stage. Jane is unable to judge their inspiration, as she is poor at appreciating poetry.

The water comes,
The water goes,
Lapping on a frozen shore.

The water comes,
The water goes,
It is not water any more.

The water says,
“Return to me;
The land returning to the sea.”

And why are we?
And why are we?
To melt that iceberg for the sea.

A Legend Regarding the Gonz, When He’s Not at Work

These are not analogous to any specific events.

Near two hundred children play
In Kupkin Park, by Glory Dais.

Trumpets blare and balloons fly
Their faces shine: here comes the guy!

He’s the guy
They love the best!
“Gonz,” they call him.
Gonz the blessed!
He makes their hearts
Pound in their chests!
And all of them
Are quite impressed!

“Alberto Gonz!” one girl responds
She shouts it out! She’s short and blonde
And in her shout she’s quite vivacious
She points and everyone turns their faces!

They gather round him, full of smiles!
It’s time for games and fun Gonz-style!

He shouts, “Oh, Billy, Sally, full of smiles!
It’s time for games and fun Gonz-style!”
But wait!
What’s that on Susie’s face?
A frown?
A frown must be erased!

“I’ll turn your whole world upside down,”
cries Gonz, “That look won’t stay a frown!”
And all the smiling kids adjust,
Their faces falling
As they must
For when the world turns upside-down
Their smiles would become all frowns,
And since they would not have adjusted
Gonz would have them adjust-busted,
Which isn’t bad
It’s kind of fun
But then the other kids would shun
The falsely frowning busted one,
And Gonz might cry,
So it’s not done!

“Tell me now what troubles you,” cries Gonz,
“And see what I can do!”

Little Susie’d lost her head
And shot her daydream playmate dead
So Gonz bestows the kiss of life
And flowers bloom
And cease their strife
And comes a shamblin’ at the end
Little Susie’s daydream friend!

“He’s back!” she cries. “He’s back, at last!
Oh, thank you slow!
Oh, thank you fast!
Oh, thank you Gonz!
You’re like the dawns!”
And in this vein goes on and on.

Gonz spins on Little Billy now.
How does he spin? With feet, that’s how!

“Tell me now what troubles you,” cries Gonz,
“And see what I can do!”

Little Billy has a bully.
Billy’s bully’s Mr. Cully,
Mr. Cully kicks the shins
Of children who won’t kneel to him!

Gonz, he listens.
Gonz, he yawns!
This isn’t hard!
He is the Gonz!

“Go home, oh Billy.
Cully’s gone!”

And so he is! It’s just like that!
The Gonz trumps bullies
No time flat.

“He’s gone!” says Billy. “Gone, at last!
Oh, thank you slow!
Oh, thank you fast!
Alberto friend
makes bullies end!”
He’s crying now! He’s round the bend!

Gonz spins on Little Sally now.
How does he spin? With grace, that’s how!

“Tell me now what troubles you,
And you will see what I can do!”

Little Sally isn’t God!
She wants to be.
It’s kind of odd!
Gonz squints at her with funny eyes
Puffs out his cheeks
And really tries.
“Little Sally! Cease your sins!”
Then Sally’s God! She’s always been!

“Oh, thank you slow!
Oh, thank you fast!
The long purpose of the world at last
Has been revealed
I know it all!”
Then she ascends
Gonz face, it falls.
He liked when Sally came and played
But now she’s in absentia dei.

Gonz spins on little Tommy next.
Who’s Tommy? He’s a boy! He’s vexed!
“I’m vexed because I want a cat!
The nuns that raise me don’t want that.”

“I’ll use my smile and win their hearts!”
says Gonz, “then put their hearts in carts,
Pushed towards Ailurophile Mart,
The mart adds parts to hearts on carts
And soon you’ll have cats Torts and Tarts!
Tarts will miau and purr and blart
While Torts will miou and purr and blort
And think Torts’ blorts have deep import.”

“Oh boy!” cries Tommy, who’s the sort
To like a cat that blarts or blorts.

The Gonz is good,
The Gonz is great,
The Gonz his happy dreams did sate!

He’s a great man,
He’s the Gonz,
His hand is like a magic wand
His teeth are like,
Magic teeth.
They must be seen
To be believed.

And maybe once in seven days,
He comes,
And children laugh and play
Of all the days
Their favorite day!
They love him so!
They love him low!
They love him high!
They love him, why?
‘Cause he’s the Gonz.
He’s deeply fly.

Two hundred kids!
They love him so!
He makes their day!
He helps them grow!

Two hundred kids!
Well, less a few.
Like Little Sally
One or two
Each time
And things like that accrue.

They love him so!
Two hundred kids!
Or that’s the count
He started with

There are a little less today
But he’s the Gonz
So that’s okay.


If it is not known to everyone, then it is known, at least,
To those dusty men
Who bury themselves in scholarly books
And make a study of the Lone Star State,
The Rattlesnakes’ State,
The state where the mounds of Caddo bleed
And an axe will split the sky,
That it is a state
Not entirely our own.

There are those
In Texas
Who bluffly say
That they’ll break free
But they are dust
Straw dogs
Texas shall not leave.


One day
The English Queen may rise
And say,
“We have decided
That once again
Texas should be Our own.”

Then the dragonflies shall fly low
And in their fear
Forget to heal the snakes

And wood cut
In the right moon
Shall splinter
Even so

And centipedes shall boil from their nests
Swarming through the Starbucks’ of the land

And deep
In the wells
In the oil wells
The British soldiers shall come

In their tunnels
Under the sea
In the tunnels
That have always led
To oil
Though never
We have known

They shall come
And rise
And the Union Jack rise
And the redcoat rise again

Black as the wells
Through which they came
And red

It is not our fault
Texas is not our own
It is a state
Too big
Any nation
To contain

And the crown of the Queen
Shall have one more jewel
And a single

And on our flag
A single

Cats Are

Cats are made of cat.
Cats are made of cat!
It’s bizarre
That they are
But cats are
Made of cat.

They say you are
What you eat
But a cat
Is no cat’s meat.
They don’t eat cats for lunch.
(on each other)

Cats are made of cat
Though there’s no cats crammed in them at all
It still is fair to call
The things inside
Pure cat!

Cats are made of cat
Cats are made of cat!
It’s bizarre
That they are
But cats are
Made of cat.


(Halloween) Conundrum

It would be difficult
to challenge
if he showed up
at the polls.

The legal grounds are clear.
He might be dead—
A case
of course
That he has unholy life.

But is this right?
Has he a vote?

We have made him a citizen
So he is not forbidden.
We have imported him, Screws, stitches, and scars.
But he is dead.
Or perhaps alive.

And no one is sure
Which way
The reanimated monstrosity vote
tends to break.

Statistics are no guide.
one should never
challenge a man’s right to vote
one thinks
one knows
the man is voting for.

It simply isn’t done.

Moon over Fallujah1

1 a product of its time. Readers who have not marooned their timeships in October 2004 should imagine that Menudo has flown to the Middle East to put an end to the Iraq War. They are immediately captured but Al-Qaeda makes the mistake of broadcasting a combination final concert and execution, during which time the unstoppable power of a boy band wins over their erstwhile executioners’ hearts; unites Shi’a, Sunni, and Kurd; and gets basically all of Iraq dancing. A repentant bin Laden orders their release and a weeping world congratulates them on their victory. These are the lyrics of the song that changed the world.

Moon over Fallujah
Menudo shock and awe

Has it been so long
Since you said you loved me?
Has it been so long
Since we held hands?
Ten nine eight
Five four three
Please don’t kill us
Zarqawi . . .

You know
(You know)
I love to see you smile
You know
(You know)
I hate to see you frown
I know
(I know)
You love me, baby,
And if you love me,
Put that knife down!

Moon over Fallujah
Menudo shock and awe

You know
(You know)
The New Kids didn’t deserve you.
You know
(You know)
The Spice Girls don’t rehearse
I know
(I know)
You love me, baby,
And if you love me,
Don’t make things worse!

If we all held hands
And sang along
We’d end this whole fight
With one song
Oh yah

You know
(You know)
Non-being comes from Tao
You know
(You know)
Being comes from Tao
I know
(I know)
You love me, baby,
And if you love me,
Let us go now!

Fallujah’s night aglow
Let’s rock for Menudo
Fallujah, hear our plea;
Don’t kill us, Zarqawi

Rock for Menudo

Boy bands bring peace
To the middle east.

To Have Forsaken Being Wrong

Whimsical on a cold Monday
Solomon carried a wooden box
Down to the gap in Gibbens Park
And filled it with uncertainty
Until its seams were bulging dark and tossed it down;
. . . . Forsaking being wrong.

This couldn’t be wrong
As, since that day, He’s had the perfect answers down
And lives inside the outside of the box
And by this very action crowned with coronet of certainty;
. . . . That day, in Gibbens Park.

A girl was watching in the park—
Still capable of being wrong
But filled with errant certainty.
Her thoughts and plans were wrong that day;
Her morals, somewhat scanty; she made herself a different box
. . . . And no guilt dressed her down.

She made a bed of eiderdown
And silks and satins in the park
She sent him through the letter box
A promise stark, a promise wrong,
A promise locked his heart that day
. . . . His chains were certainty.

He blamed her, from that certainty,
For how his morals canted down,
And nothing was his fault that day,
And blossoms drowned the silks and park
And played they and it was not wrong;
Then she took needles from her box—

She took three needles from the box
And she told him his new certainty
The fear that gripped him was not wrong.
She told him what was up was down.
And he believed her, fierce and strong, in Gibbens Park;
In Gibbens Park, that day.

They fell from the park to the stars that day;
So up must be down, post the game they played. The box
Kept the chance he was wrong away; and locked truth to his certainty.

A Cautionary Tale

There was a young sonnet from J. van Wick
That, falling deep and hard to love and need
With that so fickle form the limerick
Engaged in such inhuman acts to please
Its own form’s honor seemed to it diseased.

It learned the ways a lady fair could be
Stripped bare by winds, geometry or rhyme;
Seduced by bears, the faculty, or fleas;
Turned inside out, or upside down in time;
And all the while its spirit gathered grime;

Then came the blow that turned its love to pain:
The lim’rick one day spurned it, harsh and cold:
“I do not know what we through sex can gain
When I can find no poetry in your soul.”