767 Humor poems

I hear it at night when I turn out the light. It’s that creature who’s under my bed. He won’t go away. He’s determined to stay. But I wish he would beat it, instead. I told him to go, but he shook his head no. He was worse than an unwelcome guest. I gave him a nudge, but he still wouldn’t budge. It was hard to get rid of the pest. So I fired one hundred round cannon balls plundered from pirate ships sailing the seas. But he caught them barehanded and quickly grandstanded by juggling them nice as you please. The creature was slick. He was clever and quick. This called for a drastic maneuver. So I lifted my spread and charged under the bed with the roar of my mother’s new Hoover. But he snorted his nose and sucked in the long hose, the canister, cord, and the plug, and vacuumed in dust till I thought he would bust then he blew it all over the rug. Now this made me sore, so I cried, “This is war!” and sent in a contingent of fleas, an army of ants dressed in camouflage pants followed closely by big killer bees. But he welcomed them in With a sly, crafty grin, And he ate them with crackers and cheese. I screamed, “That’s enough!” It was time to get tough. “You asked for it, Creature,” I said, as I picked up and threw, with an aim sure and true, my gym sneaker under the bed. With each whiff of the sneaker the creature grew weaker. He staggered out gasping for air. He coughed and he sneezed and collapsed with a wheeze and accused me of not playing fair. Then holding his nose with his twelve hairy toes, the creature curled into a ball, and rolled ’cross the floor smashing right through the door. I was rid of him once and for all. The very next night when I turned out the light and was ready to lay down my head, I heard my kid brother cry out to my mother, “Hey, Ma, something’s under my bed.”

Hickory, dickory, dock, The mouse ran up the clock; The clock struck one, And down he run, Hickory, dickory, dock.

hist      whist little ghostthings tip-toe twinkle-toe little twitchy witches and tingling goblins hob-a-nob     hob-a-nob little hoppy happy toad in tweeds tweeds little itchy mousies with scuttling eyes    rustle and run     and hidehidehide whisk whisk     look out for the old woman with the wart on her nose what she’ll do to yer nobody knows for she knows the devil     ooch the devil     ouch the devil ach     the great green dancing devil devil devil devil wheeEEE

(For Barbara Crosby) While it is true (though only in a factual sense) That in the wake of a Her-I-can comes a Shower Surely I am not The gravitating force that keeps this house full of panthers Why, LBJ has made it quite clear to me He doesn’t give a Good goddamn what I think (else why would he continue to masterbate in public?) Rhythm and Blues is not The downfall of a great civilization And I expect you to Realize That the Temptations have no connection with The CIA We must move on to the true issues of Our time like the mini-skirt Rebellion And perhaps take a Closer look at Flour power It is for Us to lead our people out of the Wein-Bars into the streets into the streets (for safety reasons only) Lord knows we don’t Want to lose the support of our Jewish friends So let us work for our day of Presence When Stokely is in The Black House And all will be right with Our World

Reaching for the vinegar over the range hood (still dashing grass wisps on the gas flames from the exhaust vent where we booted that brooding sparrow) I remember the rabbit in the Tiergarten that perched on its spatula feet where the grass had just started to green. The German clouds were unibrow. It's not the stretching, slightly weaving, that recalls it, it's the tang of vinegar, Easter egg dye solvent. And my gallimaufry gets going, guests for dinner, the requisite foofaraw. In the soffits of the staircase a rag and a featherduster. In the eaves the nests made of frass and cellophane. "When it rains on a golf course it's called Irish dew — " Father-in-law's jackstraw. "Dundee, is this an Aussie shiraz? Put it in the croc au vin." Cellophane and frass. Everything in the canon went into Gargantua before he was born from the ear beneath his mama's cornrows: Augustine, Aquinas. Aristotle and Plato. Virgil and Homer. Goliards and troubadours. Thus an ort peeking out from a nostril, skin flakes, a slight acne, undercoat all colors, like a farrow; the chuffer, snuffler, grunter, farter, pecker, whelp, head half the size of the requisitioned teat (Googling "mastitis" and finding "ewe," ew) — the whole shebang reeks of bedstraw. On the radio, transrational statistics; Brigitte Bardot lashing out at the leash law in Zurich; on an uncle's fourth percussive sneeze the baby wakes — interrobang —

We were at the Edison Hotel on West 47th Street for the annual muffin beauty contest — I can’t tell you how pumped up we were. Times Square was having another psychotic judder. The bellhop was all thumbs up: Sir, have a nice day and get one gratis. All those avenues of doors and the Hispanic chambermaid who couldn’t speak English. Spider-Man was doing all that Spider-Man shit just to get a bird’s eye view. Donna Summer was almost dead and we were barely into spring. I want to dance to “Love to Love You Baby,” I want to groan. I’ve never seen so many high-quality muffins. If  I wasn’t a religious man, and maybe I wasn’t I would have said the muffins were walking on water: I’ve never felt so half-and-half. Have you read the Bible? The bellhop said: You ain’t seen muffin yet. They were drifting in from Queens, Brooklyn, Harlem, The Bronx, Manhattan muffins too and that weird cute coke-faced muffin who’d taken the subway from Coney Island. If only I were a betting man, but hey I am a betting man, it’s Coney Island every time. Lou Reed isn’t getting any younger. Zappa said, Girl you thought he was a man but he was a muffin, he hung around till you found he didn’t know nuthin’. In the lobby Nina Simone was singing, I Loves You Muffin and in the restroom they piped in “Mack the Knife”: Hey Suky Tawdry, Jenny Diver, Polly Peachum and old Miss Lulu Brown.Muffin The Romance was the biggest show in town. We were hurtling back to the 1970s and sometimes the 1970s are almost as good as the 1930s. I want my muffins to be ahistorical: shit just to say ahistorical makes me joyful. I saw Leonard Cohen crooning with a couple of octogenarian muffins and I’m telling you now the lobby was pleasantly disturbing. You may find yourself   behind the wheel of a large automobile. You may find yourself  in another part of  the world. You may find yourself  at the gargantuan muffin beauty contest and you may ask yourself, Well, how did I get here? Times Square was having another psychotic judder. Love is in the air, it’s in the whisper of the trees. This is not America, this is the cover version: sun, sex, sin, divine intervention, death and destruction, welcome to The Sodom and Gomorrah Show. All those white muffins trying to be black muffins! Give us our daily muffin, save us from temptation. Jimmy Buffett was singing, Why don’t we get drunk and screw? In Times Square the most beautiful muffins in the world were hanging on a thousand screens. Where are my singing Tibetan balls? Am I dead?

when aliens come to the earth they will land on top of gigantic mountains they will see the people everywhere each alien will communicate telepathically with another alien on the opposite side of the sphere that is its clone and itself at the same time like an atom in quantum physics the same alien in two places at once and this multiplied by millions on top of gigantic mountains 'the strategy is to destroy humans' each alien will tell itself and its clone humans will understand this strategy once the killing started, immediately happening in two places on opposite ends of the world at once, an alien and itself murdering two humans by looking at their faces then that happening repeatedly or something for some amount of time the humans falling over and their faces hitting the pavement or the carpet, or the grass or the side of a coffee table on some dog shit * there will be resistance soldiers on all parts of the earth will fight with lasers citizen militias will hold resistance meetings a resistance against death a no-death resistance a movement for death later a movement for a different, still-uncontrollable death 'humans don't want to die this way' will be their manifesto, one sheet of paper or a piece of cardboard or something * there will be humans in basements looking at each other wandering, solitary humans that want more to find another human than to avoid dying solitary, severely depressed and/or enlightened humans that commit suicide by seeking out alien faces and looking at them; these humans may feel happy inside an insane nervous breakdown humans that kill other humans because they feel insane humans that sit in a corner, feeling extremely small, maybe considering intense killing rampages/some indefinable, positive emotion for humanity humans that watch tv, use the internet to read the newspaper, and drive their cars around; they will be motionless on couches with their eyes open * the fish and insects and trees will have the ocean and the forest pretty sure they won't care

The Professor and Ginger are standing in the space in front of the Skipper’s cabin. The Professor is wearing deck shoes, brushed denim jeans, and a white shirt open at the throat. Ginger is wearing spike heels, false eyelashes, and a white satin kimono. The Professor looks at her with veiled lust in his eyes. He raises an articulate eyebrow and addresses her as Cio-Cio-San. Ginger blanches and falls on her knife. * * * Meanwhile it is raining in northern California. In a tiny village on the coast, Rod Taylor and Tippi Hedren are totally concerned. They realize that something terrible is happening. Each has been savagely attacked by a wild songbird within the last twenty-four hours. Outside their window thousands of birds have gathered in anticipation of the famous school- yard scene. Tippi Hedren is wearing a colorful lipstick. * * * Ginger stares back at the Professor. His sullen good looks are the perfect foil for her radiant smile. The Skipper and Gilligan come into sight. The Skipper has been chasing Gilligan around the lagoon for a long time now. Gilligan holds onto his hat in the stupid way he has of doing things like that. The Professor’s lips part in a sneer of perfect contempt. Ginger bares her teeth, as if in appreciation. * * * Jackie Kennedy bares her teeth. Behind and above her, the muzzle of a high-powered rifle protrudes from a window. A little man is aiming at Jackie Kennedy’s husband. The man is wearing bluejeans and a white T-shirt. There isn’t a bird to be seen. As he squeezes the trigger, the little man mutters between clenched teeth, “Certs is a candy mint.” The hands of Jackie Kennedy’s husband jerk automatically toward his head. * * * The Professor is noticing Ginger’s breasts. He thinks of the wife he left at home, who probably thinks he’s dead. He thinks of his mother, and all of the women he has ever known. Mr. and Mrs. Howell are asleep in their hut, secure in their little lives as character actors. Ginger shifts her weight to the other foot. The intensity of the moment reminds the Professor of a Japanese city before the end of the war. * * * In his mind he goes down each aisle in his government class, focusing on each face, each body. He is lying on his bed with his white shirt off and his trousers open. Dorothy Kirsten’s voice fills the room. He settles on a boy who sits two desks behind him. He begins to masturbate, his body moving in time with the sad music. At moments like these he feels farthest away. As he shoots, his lips part and he bares his teeth. * * * The Professor and Ginger are watching each other across the narrow space. The Skipper and Gilligan have disappeared down the beach. The Howells are quietly snoring. The Professor and Ginger are alone. From the woods comes the sound of strange birds. From the water comes a thick and eerie tropical silence. The famous conversation scene is about to start. Clouds appear in the sky, and it begins to snow.

Rub the entire block of SPAM*, along with the accompanying gelatinous goo, onto your wood furniture. The oils from the SPAM* moisturize the wood and give it a nice luster. Plus, you'll have enough left over to use as your own personal lubricant (a true Pacific dinner date). Why didn't you tell me about the "In Honor of Guam's Liberation" SPAM*! I'm trying to collect them all! Once I was on a diet and SPAM* faded from my consciousness. Then I met my future wife, who's Hawaiian, and SPAM* became part of my life again (a true Pacific romance). Maybe the economic downturn will help people appreciate SPAM* instead of loathing it. SPAM* doesn't have to be unhealthy; I eat SPAM* every day and I'm not dead, yet—just switch to SPAM* Lite. Despite rumors, SPAM* is NOT made of such odds and ends as hooves, ears, brains, native peoples, or whole baby pigs. The name itself stands for Specially Processed Army Meal, Salted Pork And More, Super Pink Artificial Meat, Snake Possum And Mongoose, or Some People Are Missing. My uncle is the reigning Guam SPAM* king. He won the last SPAM* cook off with his Spicy SPAM* meatballs. I will never forget the two-pound SPAM* bust of George Washington he made for Liberation Day, toasted crispy on the outside with raw egg yolk in the hollow center— the kids loved it! Only a fool would start a company in Guam that provides SPAM* protection. For Xmas, I bought a snow globe featuring a can of SPAM* sitting on an island. Turn it over and a typhoon swirls madly, unable to unseat SPAM* from its place of honor. I have a souvenir can I bought after seeing Monty Python's SPAM*ALOT on Broadway in New York City. It cost me $10 and is the most expensive SPAM* I've ever bought. I will never eat it.

Am I the only one watching my neighbour’s frolicksome goat, Ginger, tied to a pecan tree? All morning it has been examining an empty bushel basket and has lifted one leg delicately like a circus horse as if to roll it, but whether to do that or to butt it with its small horns, that is the question. Not of great moment, no signing of the Charter, but like air music, quickest of the elements. Towards which I leaped! In form its own grace, appearing, as it passed in retrospect, classical. The real goat stayed, imperturbable, the body solid as a four-square loom and delivered me from abstraction. His coloring, greyish-soft shades, their dark and light passing into each other as in an antique rubbing. I now found myself sitting so near, my shade, as in the Inferno, sensed his, but he gave no sign of my presence, even when I stroked him and my heart leaped at the gentle fleece, too fine for a hard life. He continued nibbling on a dry bush. I would not have believed unconcern could bolster the man in me and be so enduring. Sic transit, not caring whether it is recognized, The Divine (from another age). He was poking into the underbush now and reached across my head for the small spiny twigs. At that the phase changed and a sensuous trembling hung in the air, as when a bee is about to descend on blossoming clover, and I felt myself being pulled as by a line from the invisible other side to enter goathood, deeper than sight.