Parody 4.2 .pdf
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poetry for the world as it really isn't
October 31, 2015
Volume 4, Issue 2
And if that wasn't funny, there were lots of things that weren't
– Joseph Heller
Editor in Chief
O Captain My Captain
©2015, Parody Poetry
ISSN: 2165-6606 (print)
ISSN: 2166-0085 (electronic)
We delicately extract each specimen from the imagination of the respective author
without damaging his/her precommissural fornix nor his/her legal ownership of the
piece. Please refrain from circumventing international copyright laws; that includes
you, Periwinkle. To purchase a copy, or nine-ish, use the order form in back or visit
our port on the high-seas of the internet: www.parodypoetry.com. You are most
welcome to mail us your submissions, subscriptions, and self-replicating nanobots:
Parody Poetry Journal, P.O. Box 6688, Portland, OR 97228
Barbara Lydecker Crane
A Child's Guide to the Dog
To Whom it May Concern
Yep, That's My Girl
With Wobbly Steps
After Reading "Jack and Jill" to My
Why I Haven't Killed Myself Yet
After the Mayo Clinic
Grownup at the Youth Slam
The Power of Lox
Ode to Rye Toast
Give Peas a Chance
An Apple in Red
Still I Reappear
Gloria D. Gonsalves
Jenny Dump'd Me
I Eat Grape-Nuts with Raisins
J. Patrick Lewis
The Poop Researcher
Vegans Versus Vampires
The Green Room
I Will Arise and Go Now ___________
Ozzy Mandias (My Latvian Mechanic) 21
He Wishes for Nike Runners
My Laundry Mystery
Lament of the Cactus
Drive By Liturgy
Works Parodied_______________ 35
Well, here we are. And by here, I mean we are publishing volume 4
issue 2. For short, issue 4.2.
Anyone who remembers to pack their towel when hitchhiking
knows that this is eerily similar to the answer to the ultimate question:
42. (Though with this being our 8th issue by normal counting, we can
only speculate and hope that, 17 years in the future, we will actually
publish a 42nd issue.)
And by here, I also mean Portland, Oregon. Scratch out P.O. Box
404 from our card in your Rolodex, and make sure to address your
letters to 6688 from now on! All your letters. Even the ones to your
dear Aunt Myrtle. (We'll forward them along after a careful read
through.) No bills, please. If you're feeling electronic, send an email to
email@example.com instead of... uh... hmm.... what was that
email address we used to use? Ah well, good riddance!
As we officially publish issue 4.2 from our weird, new home, we
feel like we must be doing something right. A land of kombucha on
tap. A land where slug bugs (or punch buggies, if you prefer) and
bagpiping unicyclists roam the streets. A land with the bookstore-to
rule all bookstores. And here we are in this land, stumbling across
such universally true numbers... approximately. Who is to stop one
little misplaced decimal from letting us think we are correct? It's not
that we poets are anti-math. We can be statisticians too! And every
statistician, for every calculation, can pick the margin of error that
feels most true in the moment of formulation. And when you really get
down to it, every number is close to 42 in its own way.
So, here's the issue that contains the answer to the ultimate
question. Or at least, the issue contains some bits that come a little bit
close to resembling the answer. I think that's about the best we can
ever hope for.
Whether you seek truth in medicine, money, prickly plants, or
scatological science, we have selections for you to read and ponder.
P.O. Box 6688
Portland, OR 97228
Honeybees browse the pollen scene,
Then info-dance for hive and queen.
Fireflies flash fluorescent bytes,
To entice she-flies on sultry nights.
While lizard's bobbing throat display,
Is a firewall to keep males at bay.
A fiddler crab will his claw wave,
To chat she-crabs into his cave.
Sir rabbit's thump on hollowed log
Is his lagomorphic website blog.
He-spider taps desire on her internet.
If he miss-taps, that web-mistress has him yet.
It seems many creatures communicate
On their sex and health and estrous state.
But the master at this hashtag jabber
Is a dog and his olfactory member.
For familiaris will, while sniffing, garner,
Info on who passed and if enamor.
So I stop and start when with my dog,
For each pillar and post host canine blog.
And of course my lad will never fail
To pause to send his own pee-mail.
A Child's Guide to the Dog
For Miles and Kate
As though reading Yiddish,
let's start with the tail.
While it may look like a handle,
it is not. Don't clutch it like a tow rope
to a speedboat on Lake Delton
before a Tommy Bartlett show.
Neither is it paintbrush or crank.
No, sir: the tail is a delicate instrument,
a gauge by which to reckon canine temper:
beats per minute and angle of incline,
just two of its methods of measure.
The barrel stove of its body
will serve to warm you
when winter licks your hands,
while the neck of any mutt
that's big enough to bear it
will stand your arm, sound
as a coat rack or fence prop.
The mouth of your canine companion
is the Swiss Army Knife of its being:
disposer of garbage, dispenser of kisses,
warning system, paper shredder,
alarm clock, pest controller, bodyguard,
flying object interceptor.
Perhaps you've had cause to notice the eyes,
those adepts at manipulation,
have fallen prey to their spell,
felt their heartbreaking gaze
sweep you like a searchlight
from which there is no escape.
Well then, there is nothing more
you need to know.
Yep, That's My Girl
It occurs to me that what the dog and I have in common
(a love of the outdoors, a good back scratch, and a nap)
is more salient than what we do not—
for instance, my lack of tail, her lack of speech,
my two sluggish legs, her agile four,
my purse, and shoes, and car key,
her bed upon the floor.
When someone asks, Did you adopt her?
it's ever tempting to say, No, I gave birth.
But then, while we both
have noses, eyes, and ears,
they're of noticeably different shapes,
instantly giving me away.
With Wobbly Steps
with apologies to Sir Philip Sidney
With wobbly steps, O Youth, thou climb'st the stairs!
How clumsily and with how red a face!
What! Dost thou trip and fall about the place
and pray thy folks sleep soundly, unawares?
Perhaps thy little brother who now sees
thee fall can be persuaded not to race
and broadcast to the house thy plunge from grace.
To him, thou could'st give money and say "PLEASE!"
Now, in thy shameful state, O Youth, pray tell,
whil'st thou cling to the handrail, bleary-eyed,
are friends thou partied with, like thee, unwell—
in fear, lest their condition be descried?
Those youth who guzzle beer in lieu of milk
will bring ignominy on all their ilk.
After Reading "Jack and Jill" to My Granddaughter
To keep our kids from what we did,
we cite the quaint and tragic,
like falling down, hence broken crown,
though there rhyme strays from logic.
Must Jack fall down to break his crown
and spill the pail of water?
If Ned and Nell went to a well,
the hill just wouldn't matter.
And Jack, near killed, his water spilled,
Jill's presence is not needed.
One broken head—we have our dread,
the rest can go unheeded.
If she's a must, to raise more fuss
(imagine the blood spatter),
as heroine when he breaks skin
could Jill run home for Mother?
If not, then Jack could tromp to shack
to fetch his dad's sharp shovel.
No hill, no down, just broken crown,
as he crawls back to hovel.
Or solo Jill, gone down the hill
to town, where there are dangers,
Could then get grabbed by someone bad
(Don't ever talk to strangers!).
Someday cocaine may fry kids' brains,
and cars could fuel dread hurry,
but lies we've told (if we don't scold)
for now can lessen worry.
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