Rule of Whim – David Lohrey
October 15, 2023
Season’s Greetings
The arithmetic of war …
That’s why Americans are poor at math.
The peacekeepers can’t be trusted.
Charles de Gaulle and Thomas Mann had it right.
This is what I see and hear pa rum pum pum pum.
The arithmetic of war can’t be taught.
This is how the people live.
There is nothing you can do about it.
You don’t expect death; it’s indiscriminate.
It’s the hap-happiest season of all.
We will gain the inevitable triumph, so help us God.
He wants to make it new. Every Sunday
is a picnic. It’s the most wonderful time
of the year. I’m dreaming of a white Christmas.
It is time to make the journey, me and my drum.
New gardens must be planted –
raised beds, no pesticides. The rose is obsolete.
There are no threats the ladybugs can’t handle.
The men will arrive tomorrow. There’ll be much
mistletoeing and hearts will be glowing.
The planting must continue. Cotton is wrong
on many levels. Replace the radishes with books.
Melville, Faulkner and Hemingway
were the first Harlem Globetrotters.
This is the recipe for a better world.
The nation has nothing to do with territory.
Love’s got everything to do with it.
There will be no victory parades.
We’ll have to go into hiding.
There’ll be scary ghost stories.
The men must be told to stop crying.
Women will have to take up arms.
Half the population may be annihilated.
People will once again learn to make fires.
There’ll be parties for hosting, marshmallows for toasting.
Silent night, holy night.
All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth.
Do you see what I see?
I have no gift to give that is fit to give a king.
Do you hear what I hear? Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.
Congratulations
People have been trained to turn in their neighbors.
It’s the mood of the country.
Call 911 if you hear a crying baby.
No one can afford to walk away.
It’s the mood of the country.
The animals are skittish.
No one can afford to walk away.
There’s no fuck–you money.
The animals are skittish.
Set up a Facebook page that shows you care.
There’s no fuck-you money.
Get pics of you holding dying children.
Set up a Facebook page that shows you care.
It’s the smell of the land.
Get pics of you holding dying children.
Cry.
It’s the smell of the land.
Tell them you love naked children but only when they’re starving.
Cry.
Be sure it goes on the college application.
Tell them you love naked children but only when they’re starving.
My daughter’s writing an essay on Steve Biko.
Be sure it goes on the college application.
If she doesn’t get into Duke, Vanderbilt might do.
My daughter’s writing an essay on Steve Biko.
The water tastes funny.
If she doesn’t get into Duke, Vanderbilt might do.
The horses won’t stand still.
The water tastes funny.
She’s volunteering at the valley hospital.
The horses won’t stand still.
She better run for office, too, and join the chorus.
She’s volunteering at the valley hospital.
Have you tried the hibiscus and blackcurrant tea?
She better run for office, too, and join the chorus.
My wife recommends the Vegan Victoria with strawberry and rhubarb.
Have you tried the hibiscus and blackcurrant tea?
I prefer the rye toast with parsley puree.
My wife recommends the Vegan Victoria with strawberry and rhubarb.
Tell them you love naked children but only when they’re starving.
Shelter in Place
My guardian won’t let me out to play.
She told me to amuse myself in my room.
She doesn’t want me to get wet.
She’s afraid the neighbor’s dog might bite.
I have some games I can play all by myself.
My guardian is always worried.
It’s been raining now for several days.
The traffic’s slowed to almost a stand still.
The newscaster warns people to stay indoors.
The house is insured against flooding.
A boy last year drowned in the local river.
I was told to get up on the roof in an emergency.
It’s been 7 years since they outlawed music.
My guardian told me to stop humming.
Girls are advised to always dress in layers.
The marauders use giant nets and even carry bug spray.
The men look for frightened girls like me.
I was captured and sold to my guardian six years ago.
I always wear leotards and my bathing suit at the same time.
My guardian scarred my face so I wouldn’t look pretty.
You can hear the firing squads in the distance.
Girls must avoid detection at all costs.
I can pass for a boy from a distance.
My guardian trained me to fight with a sharp blade.
We’ve been living like this for as long as I can remember.
The police dress entirely in black now and cover their faces.
If pregnant, they line you up and shoot you.
There’s an escape route my guardian talks about through Alaska.
They threw my boyfriend off the bridge and into the water.
The toxic spray they use is so strong it induces labor.
I remember hearing my mother sing.
My guardian says I could pass for a boy.
They say we have a 20% chance of survival.
An Anthology of Utopias
We all want answers,
even if it means carrying a crib.
It’s necessary when our teachers
ask impossible questions. We study hard
but we hardly come close; our responses
approximate the truth. It is better to cheat.
But I’ve lucked out. I found a bound
volume, an anthology of utopias which
provides all the answers. It promises
nothing if not an end to despair. Just think:
Brook Farm in hardback; Skaneateles explained.
Read with care it is a blueprint for Amana.
In this volume life comes to an end. It demands
that we turn our backs on ourselves. We give up
the everyday; in exchange we gain the eternal.
This is social equality forever and an end to jealousy.
Purity of purpose replaces greed and an end to lust.
The threat of mutiny is replaced by true harmony.
An anthology of utopia has no room for sexual difference.
The trans movement is a step in the right direction.
Soon we’ll be like Barbie and Ken, not creatures
with the same genitals but with none. People no longer
identified by their color of underwear. Hallelujah.
We’ll all come in camouflage and in wigs.
We’ll be soldiers more comfortable in death than in life.
Women’s breasts will no longer have nipples. Men’s asses
will no longer smell. People will go to prison for calling
him, her. That old woman at the end of the corridor will be
our monitor. Death assists utopian aspirations. The only thing
standing in the way of perfection is human enterprise. End it.
Charles Manson was one of the authors of this anthology
of utopias. Pol Pot, too, designed plans for eternal bliss. He
trained all his people to crawl and how to meow. He instructed
them on how to stack the bodies in neat piles. Others, of course,
prefer to eat them. Devouring traces of human life leaves the planet
a cleaner place. Utopians are nothing if not preservationists.
B-29 Bombers over Ginza
clouds of ammonia fill the skies
cries of despair
the women stop to eat their hair
they
scratch their nails against the wailing
wall,
they agonize for children lost in battle
they sing their songs, they sell their souls
they beat the shit out of their sons and daughters
god bless the men for bringing up the artillery
there is a time to live and a time to kill
the children shoo away the birds: bye bye
there is a tribe
that cuts out a man’s Adam’s apple and leaves it
on an ant hill to be picked clean
women wear them around their waists
on their honeymoons
the bones dangle tied with rhino tails
until they dry
you can see the sparrows riding on the rhinos’ backs
that is that. it’s been lovely, I’m sure the women
and children are to be marched away.
the young learn to kowtow. There sits
the ghost of Jerry Lewis, the mad genius they say
tormented women with his erections,
rampaging around Paramount Studios,
his arrogance
on full display. On their deathbeds, in 2022, his female co-stars
accused him of being no more than another sex fiend,
waving his bat, threateningly, hoping to make them cry
bombardier to captain: “this is the captain speaking”
doom replied, as the bombs fall on the plaza
you’ve seen it, haven’t you? Starring World Peace, the sequel,
as they say in the trades, War and peace, part ii
just ask his Latvian secretary for an appointment
Spielberg is waiting; “call me Steve!”
Jaws III. it’s a five-act screenplay
you’ll play the fisherman
eaten by the shark
let’s hope you can handle a flare
send your dick pic in to the producers
the gents’ room is on the second floor
the commissary is where Rock Hudson
used to flaunt his biceps.
it’s where Doris Day lost her virginity
avert your eyes; look at the floor
back into the room and sit down
tell them how concerned you are
about the treatment of the great white shark
and how careful you will be not to scratch his throat