Mute Elation

If they turn on his mute button,
Trump might take to wire cuttin’.
He’ll shout over poor hoarse Joe,
echoing his, “No! No! No!”
In two minutes silent time,
just imagine what he’ll mime:
Hunter Biden with crack whores,
Sleepy Joe’s nuclear wars.
And perhaps he will have signs,
hold them up between Joe’s lines,
like: “Antifa Founding Member,”
and “He’ll be dead by December.”
Trump will do his current dances,
causing comas and fear trances.
Even with their covid spacing,
Trump might start his feral pacing.
So, to mute, or not to mute.
With Trump, all precaution’s moot.
He will not accept restraint.
Mister play-by- rules, he ain’t.
There’s a way to stop him seething.
Treat the man as if he’s teething.
One thing only stops this liar:
KFC sauce pacifier.

Whitey Ford (’28-’20)

Who’s that lefty on the hill?
He can really move that pill.
How’s he make it do that shit?
Cuts the ball or uses spit.
Throws a foot short of the rubber.
Ball’s so juiced it could be flubber.
He could stay out all night drinking.
Just mean his curve will be sinking.
One of the Yanks’ all-time kings.
Left hand won six Series rings.
He’s up in heaven now with Mick,
in their pinstriped golf cart.
And when the clubhouse bar opens,
they’ll be there from the start.

Mickey Charles Mantle (’31-’95)

When I was a boy, around eight, nine and ten,
I had a good imagination, but just one good friend.
And he, my friend, was Mickey Mantle, needed dad menage,
a summertime mirage at my side, out against the garage.
My grip, exact upon the small bat handle,
I’d run inside up steps in his limp gait.
I’d hit and field and throw just like the Mick,
trot bases, head down, never celebrate.
I turned my toothy grin into a reticent half smile,
sometimes imagined pain in both my shins.
I tried an Oklahoma drawl. That dropped in a short while.
I worshipped all my icons, photos, baseball cards and pins.
It’s hard to think a lone white boy in times of Eisenhower
could be confused and even fearful of the noontime sirens,
whose dreams of fireworks often turned to nuclear shower.
A boy must best adapt to his environs.
And, so, I owe a vote of thanks to my fave athlete,
who got me out of my white house, if not out on the street.
Mick dispelled the theory I could not play well with others.
I see him now not as a father; more like we were brothers.

Nuclear Football Nerfs

People get wise, this October surprise
is happening before our eyes.
Nothing you see is certain.
It’s a science fiction curtain.
It’s reality built out of schemes and lies.
Atlas, Barr the door, knock the speaker to the floor.
Call Proud boys on the phone. I’ll be in the vault, alone.
Do not dare open the door, unless you’ve snuck in a whore.
When I come out, the New Age will be Stone.

Scott Atlas: Alien Hero

The cockroaches have dirt on him.
He’s just part of their scam.
He’s not of this earth, you see.
He is an insect man.
More powerful than Ant Man,
more popular than Beatles,
he drives the Covid Killer Train.
He’s king of dirty needles.
Another daft from t.v. land
to shout death’s throaty call.
Soon there will be enough corpses
to finish up the wall.
They’re all in plastic cases,
piled up somewhere in the west.
They say that Atlas lives in one.
The food in there’s the best.

Between Turned Leaves (for N.)

Put me in your page.
Then I’ll grow grey with age.
I’m your bookmark.
Drop me on the floor.
That’s o.k., you got lots more.
I’m your bookmark.
Sometimes I’m substituted
for one more fitting to the theme.
I know that I’ll come back,
though laying in a stack.
Because caressing pages is my dream.
Give me dogged ears
that droop more through the years.
I’m your bookmark.
When I’m on your shelf,
I’m my better self.
I’m your bookmark.

Loan Justice

Bill Barr’s House of Justice is exciting many fears.
They’ll execute a woman, the first in seventy years.
It makes a point that in some ninety days
his vengeance wing can hurt us many ways.
His army of ICE rubes and border haters
are dangerous as hungry alligators.
His serving on the big Thanksgiving platter
could be an intense heat on Black Lives Matter.
His present for the country Christmas season
could be arresting protesters for treason.
And on the time of power’s great transition,
we still have no inkling on his position.
If it’s “Katy, Barr the door,”
will it start a civil war?
We may need to call the Justice League
to end these four long years of Trump fatigue.

Coati Coalition

They found the lemur who was kidnapped
from the Frisco zoo.
He roamed a park in Daly City,
early-voted, too.
He was pleased, part of the group
called “Lemurs Against Trump.”
If he could free the meerkats,
Biden would get quite the bump.
All zoos are a hotbed now
of Democratic zeal.
Many caged love AOC,
fans of her Green New Deal.
From penguins to gnus,
you’ll never hear much about Trump.
The only time they shout his name
is when they take a dump.

A.G. Blues

Trump and Barr are falling out
and may break up as well.
The A.G. failed to jail Barack,
and now can go to hell.
Big Bill worked hard to prop him up.
but now he’s let him down.
He’s worried, and his Flintstone face
now wears a constant frown.
He doesn’t want to get the boot,
the Sessions walk of shame.
He knew the rules, that if you lose,
you’re kicked out of Trump’s game.
So, after Barr, he can’t look far;
there’s no time for a quest.
To gain some votes, pick some big star.
The Yeezy, Kanye West !

I Heard of a Herd

I heard of a herd
that swallowed a word
that led them downhill
into a mass kill.
Their lives were o.k.,
but not so today.
Went down in defeat.
And now they’re just meat.
Dead dreams on American buns.
Bodies piling up by the tons.
It’s everything the master always craved,
endless tombstones with his name engraved.
I heard of a herd
who thought words absurd.
Who summoned the will
to march back uphill,
their lives to retrieve.
The master must leave.
The land will revive.
And love can survive.
New notes in our country’s songs,
promising to right our wrongs.
A healing world, a brighter sky.
We mourn the souls who had to die.

Indigenous People’s Day

When Indians got in the way,
from the first invasion day,
there was always hell to pay.
Or maybe just some beads.
The natives gave their corn,
got nothing back but scorn,
torn, rounded up, forlorn.
But yet, no white heart bleeds.

Grin and Barrett

She’s a registered fetus saver.
That’s her peculiar flavor.
No biblical contortion
says Jesus hates abortion.
But she’ll control your motherhood
by voting Roe v. Wade’s no good.
She claims religion won’t distract her.
Lifetime piety’s no factor.
She’s a woman just like you,
just spends more time in a pew.
Right wing Christians now rejoice
at the coming lack of choice.
No more need to picket clinics.
Fuck all those agnostic cynics.
Blatant unprotected bangers
can go back to using hangers.
Little girls who get the urge,
face the population surge.
Babies, babies, everywhere,
many now without health care,
since she’ll kill the ACA.
Reproduce. Have a nice day.

Death Fest

We’re goin’ to a Covid party!
It’s happenin’ on the White House lawn.
The odds are five to one of getting sick while having fun.
In a few weeks, some of us are probably gone.
But it’s worth it to hear our glorious leader,
through his spray of aerosol germs in the air,
tell us it will disappear, although it’s very clear
whatever happens to us, he won’t really care.
Maybe we’ll get a tee shirt or a fancy campaign hat.
We can beat this China virus if we’re brave.
And, if we do get sick, at least we’re lookin’ slick
in our 2020 garments in the grave.
It’s the ultimate death mental rave.

Ledger

A busted billionaire out on the ledge
has drawn a crowd below; some holler, “Jump”.
For several hours now, he’s been on edge.
The tower he has climbed is branded “Trump.”
It’s one of many buildings that he owns.
All his claims of glory deal with money.
But now he has to pay off monster loans
from people who don’t think his act is funny.
The Russians clearly have him in their sights.
Records show the Chinese will soon follow.
The Saudis; lordy, he’s stretched very thin.
This pressure’s getting very hard to swallow.
His pleas for help from lawyers, thugs and God,
though blatant, have lately just gone unheeded.
Now he’s sick and whacked on steroid drugs,
a mark who can’t pay up, no longer needed.
But he’s a coward and will crawl on back
into the waiting arms of dreaded Feds.
He’ll rant and rave, insisting he is brave,
and blame his woes and troubles on the meds.
He’ll confess to crimes, name many names.
At this point he knows that he needs protection.
Abandoning his palace dipped in gold,
he’ll head off to a big house of correction.

Last Scene from “Psycho”

There wasn’t much suspense
in Harris versus Pence.
She had the upper hand.
He’s going to be shit canned.
And yet, he rambled on,
as if she’d up and gone.
She did a great slow burn
while waiting for her turn.
He flaunted debate rules,
treated the ‘girls’ like fools,
defended his great fascist boss,
played down the virus and the loss.
He piled them up, lie after lie.
But then, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.

The Lying Dead

I’m blocked by blatant blasphemies.
His dictator film fantasies.
He should have to pay disaster fees.
He tears the mask off,
with no breath to cough.
This movie must come to its end.
America is not his friend.
He’s got mutilation to spend.
And it’s never too late
to manipulate hate.
Anyone living inside
could be his diseased droplets bride.
A beautiful marriage,
and the wedding carriage
will drop you graveside when you’ve died.

Who Was That Masked Man?

He’s a one-man Covid parade.
Be afraid. Be very afraid.
He says he gets miracles sent down by god,
while crossing his fingers, a wink and a nod.
His people are cheering him out in the street,
which prompted this psychotic sick meet and greet.
He says he’ll be back in the White House in days,
to rule like a fool in a medical haze.
He’s taking a hodgepodge of powerful drugs.
Some of them may not have worked out their bugs.
Stand back and stand by, this might not work out well,
a strange denouement to these four years in hell.

Orange Is the New Blue

This episode is quite upsetting,
until you unravel the why.
This autocrat will not suffer defeat.
In fact, he would much rather die.
And so, there’s a plan now to fake his demise.
He’s hired the Jeff Epstein crew.
They’ll carry him out on a gurney real soon.
His makeup not orange, but blue.
His death by viral complications
will float through the Walter Reed halls.
His public will weep. He’ll be drugged to sleep.
This plan takes incredible balls.
Eric at the funeral seen giggling,
Don junior wasted, face ashine.
Ivanka’s great tears are collected
for her new smell of death perfume line.
Melania, thinking of her huge pre-nup,
will have trouble being her best.
While Barron will show no emotion at all.
He keeps things quite close to his vest.
Then, after the ‘burial,’ Trump will be spirited
to some undiscovered isle,
to party with Jeff and some other ‘dead’ crooks,
some of whom may have been there awhile.
His FOX friends will declare him the new best dead prez.
His base will wait for resurrection.
November will see Pence and Graham go down,
an historic lopsided election.
And when books look back at our crazed forty-five,
the turmoil and death he created,
they’ll always refer to the notebook they found
with the huge list of people he hated.
And, many years later, when questions arise,
through a tip from his aging last bride,
they’ll dig up his coffin to check on the bones,
and find Alec Baldwin inside.

Positivity

The first thought is that this could be a set-up.
He’ll quarantine a few days, then he’ll get up,
say, “I beat China flu, so you can do it, too.
It only kills the weak.” And he won’t let up.
“Two hundred thousand didn’t have to die.
They could all beat it if they’d only try.
Melania and me just drank some Clorox tea,
and now we feel as good as apple pie.”
He’ll say the whole pandemic is a hoax.
And make a lot of Democratic jokes.
He’ll say that Chuckles Schumer
started the deadly rumor,
and that is what has killed all these poor folks.
A plague of liberal misinformation
is what has caused the death toll in our nation.
If Dems had listened to him about bleach,
we’d all be out now sunning on the beach.
“So, toss your masks away and breathe the air.
It may kill sickly oldsters; we don’t care.
Open up the schools; our kids now look like fools.
If I can beat it, so can you. I swear.”

Knock-On-Wood News 10/01

New York diocese is bankrupt.
Clergy abuse suits.
Disney cartoon country will strip
all our native roots.
Kenosha Kyle, the killer boy,
has made his needed fan.
Official word: he was “protecting
the small business man.”
China’s going to the moon.
It’s “National Hair Day.”
Brad Parscale is getting “help.”
The Heat got blown away.
Trump debunked of his false claim
of postmen selling ballots.
He’d stand on a debate stage
and hit people with mallets.
Hong Kong police continue
to suppress their people’s rights.
Faith based groups quickly erase
ACB from their sites.
Jimmy Carter, ninety-six years
working for the good.
News says next debate
will have some changes, knock on wood.