More Shortages

It can’t happen here update

The Trump administration is coming under increasing pressure from Fox News and Mayors and Governors across the nation because of the long lines at Euthanasia Centers.

“Seniors should not be forced to wait in hours long lines to die,” said Republican Senator Marco Rubio of Florida. Brit Hume of Fox News was forced to agree. “We don’t want to criticize the President in this time of crisis, but these long waits are a National embarrassment.”

Not only is there a critical of shortage of crematoria and incinerators, the three drug cocktail used for the execution is also in short supply. That, coupled with the shortage of urns for ashes and a terrible lack of the commemorative t-shirts that the elders are supposed to receive a week before their execution, has caused widespread consternation—particularly among the Trump base. As you probably recall, the commemorative t-shirts read, “I’m willing to die to save the street.”

In response, the President said that the critical shortage of facilities was being met by a growing number of industrial giants. “It’s a really good response, he said. The best response in the entire world.

Trump said that the shortage of crematoriums was a result of Obama’s horrible regulations. “We inherited pollution requirements and all sorts of garbage regulations,” he said.

Vice-President Pence, head of the Federal Death Panel, said “some of these problems are easily overcome. We can use a sledge hammer instead of the drug cocktail for the executions—it’s quicker anyway.”

“And why can’t those t-shirts be made at home?” he added. “That’s one reason we should require that women take Home Economics in our schools.”

Posted in Humor, parody | 3 Comments

Karen’s poem Bulle de Bonheur is up on the Drabble

My wife has a poem up on The Drabble today. It’s her first published poem since sixth grade.

Bulle de Bonheur
by The Drabble

By Karen A. Deutsch

Before the plans have been sketched out
Before the seeds have been ordered
Before the bricks have been delivered
Before the garden debris has been raked
Before the roses have been cut back
Before the angled trees have been staked
Before the garage door has been repainted
Before we slather ourselves with lotion
We sit in chairs left out over Winter
Knees to knees, heads leaning back
Eyes closed, breathing rhythmically
Listening to the robins welcoming Spring

My poetry has always taken a back seat to my art practice; with Spring it sometimes puts out shoots.

Posted in gang gang dance, poetry | 1 Comment

My poem Fire Escape—based on an Alfred Stieglitz photo is up on Ekphrastic Review today. Many thanks to my friend and fellow poet Sarah Russell, who saw the photo and knew she had to share it with me. This poem is best viewed on the site with the photo. So here is the link:

http://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic/fire-escape-by-steve-deutsch

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New poem on The Drabble

Learning to Write Poetry Late in Life
The Drabble

Of course it’s magic,
the way the teacher coaxed
me off my easy chair,
where briared and booked,
I planned
to snooze away my twilight.

I find I’m curious again—
that odd peering into things,
I thought I’d
left behind.

Remember
that first poem?
Like a first solo flight—
ground dropping
like Newton’s apples,
the catch of thin breath,
and the wonder
of words.

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Savior

One more on Biscuit Root Drive:

Savior
In her last years
mom took to the lottery
like a robed devotee
takes to prayer.

Each morning at eleven
she would darken the boxes
of the day’s lottery picks,
carefully transcribing
from a penciled crib sheet.
She would no more
have the computer choose numbers
than make her coffee
in one of those
automated eyesores
soon to leave our planet
knee-deep in plastic pods.

Every evening
she would station herself
by the console television
and take down the numbers
as the ping pong balls
popped out of pneumatic tubes.
She won fifty dollars once
but never the big score—
the uncountable mega-millions.

We never spoke of it
but deep down
mom believed
she would make things right.
In a family
significant only in disappointment
she would redeem us all.

Today I pause in a supermarket—
a thousand miles from where she is buried
to buy five lottery tickets.
I let the computer pick random numbers,
although I still use her old Bialetti for coffee.
The jackpot is hundreds of millions
and for a heartbeat,
I imagine myself a winner.
It’s only money,
but as mom would say,
“how could it hurt?”

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New Poem: Bibelot

My poem, Bibelot, was just published by Biscuit Root Drive. Here is the poem:

Yours was not
an easy death.
Ampules of morphine
lined the icebox shelves

amid the chaos of beer bottles
and rancid cheese.
How many who wished you
that unremitting pain,

would have paid
to hear you scream?
I did not stay
for your final performance,

inheriting as a consolation
a box of unpaid bills
and odds and ends
of your torturous life.

One was the amulet
you wore around your neck.
You were never without it,
and I searched for an inscription—

some relic of youthful kindness,
some touch of tendered love—
realizing at last it was just a piece
of street junk

you nailed a hole in
and wore to ward off—
what?
I wear it now.

Shabby and worthless?
Yes.
Yet,
it feels just right.

Posted in gang gang dance, poetry, Uncategorized | 1 Comment

Poem: Memorial Service

My poem, Memorial Service, was just published by Nixes Mate Review. Here is the poem:

Memorial Service

I hardly knew
the dear departed

and what was there to know
anyway? That the man

who passed unnaturally
soon was much more

saintly than I? Brilliant,
with a fine sense of humor

and parenting skills to rival
those of “Father Knows Best?”

How could I not
imagine my own service?

Suppose the speakers
were not eulogists

but the
damaged

those I
trespassed upon?

They’d limp up
bent nearly in two

with the weight
of their worlds

bursting with need
to expose their festering wounds

a hundred
or, perhaps just one.

Dazzling the mourners
in sequins and rags,

she’d calmly stand
at the lectern

of my final pageant
to the respect of dead silence

and tell
in the same voice

that once startled
Moses.

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