N  a  p a  l  m     H  e  a  l  t  h     S  p  a  :     R  e  p  o  r  t     2  0  0  9






Progress is the Bo-Tox of Everything

After Vladimir Mayakovsky


Where to park a car

with horsepower such as this?

And what station to play

while I circle?


Were I

champagne of beers flat,

en pointe aloft foam I’d sink.

Dogpaddle rapids to tease barkeep,

to secure correct licensing

for this caliber.

The gun range too crowded for tripsaver?


Were I drowsy

as a game show,

I'd still take the kip.


Somnumbalist exhausted!

A triple shot of Venusian roasted ain't nothin'

for my encyphalitic lethargica.


Had I a writer's block

prolific as Stephen King's,

nimble as pick pocket at nudist's colony,

shame them into seclusion with smut-crammed hard drive!


My libido could

fill an above-ground pool:

floating in tan lines,

leaving no wake,

the aryan 007––soaking book review pages!


Were I

refined as midnight thunder,

how I’d yank yr chain!

One eyelash flash

would change the channels of BBC.


And if

I end up raving

against all fantasy fiction,

Darth Vadar, distressed, would wring gloves

on Death Star

and march off set.


Were I dim as some,

I'd scramble brains

of computer egg heads

all by i-phonetic,

satellite radiant,

netjerkoff profile.


Or I’ll pass,

dragging outmoded cathode ray.

On what

heroic air-disaster landed, embryo implanted,

by what atheist scientist was I begot –

I, so literary

and by no one readed?




Dear Futurists:


So right to say 'horn of time blows,'

but I got mean nostalgia jones,

busy crooning 'Nature Boy,'

bobbing my hair. Can future wait?



The Present