TRUMP REHIRES FIRED FEDERAL WORKERS: THE VOICE OF TRUTH
In a bold move, President Trump has proclaimed
federal workers from the Parks Department
will be rehired to man the nation’s farms, formerly misrun
to the point of collapse by now-deported illegals.
Since these Park workers have experience with the outdoors,
they will be ideal for their new, necessary assignments.
To ensure that they report for work punctually and ready
to serve in any capacity needed to guarantee
the nation’s food supply, they will be rounded up
by the Armed Services, local police forces, and FBI agents
who have publicly vowed loyalty to the President.
The pay will be minimum wage, the President declared:
“Far more than what those lazy bastards deserve,
for finally doing an honest day’s work.”
They will be housed in simple wooden structures
and purchase provisions at Company Stores on site,
to prepare healthy meals after their daily assignments
have been completed to their overseers’ satisfaction.
They will not have access to automobiles, thus
saving money for themselves and for the country
on what they would squander on gas and maintenance.
We applaud President Trump’s foresight
in remanning farms to save the nation’s food supply
and to reduce unemployment levels
that have exploded of late: workers, especially
DOJ traitors, spitefully walking away from their jobs.
to sabotage the President’s plan to Make America
Great and Moral and American Again.
Gerald So's YouTube reading of "Trump Rehires..."
Cooperman confesses: "When Trump announced all the layoffs and firings, I thought he'd cause massive unemployment and inflation, and just utter disruption and ruin to good, hard working people's lives. So I put myself in Trump's head (not a pretty place to be) and came up with the 'solution' presented by this poem. If it sounds like something once perpetrated in America's ignominious past, that's intentional."
ROBERT COOPERMAN's latest collection is The Death and Rebirth of Ophelia, a retelling of Hamlet, with a slightly happier ending, at least for Ophelia. Steerage is the highly fictionalized story of his grandfather's misadventures on the Lower East Side of New York in the early 20th Century. An Oar for Odysseus is the final collection in Cooperman's lifelong love affair with Odysseus and The Odyssey.
Showing posts with label Robert Cooperman. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Robert Cooperman. Show all posts
Monday, June 23, 2025
Friday, September 6, 2024
Steerage by Robert Cooperman
Five-Two alum Bob Cooperman announces his latest from Kelsay Books, Steerage, calling it "a ripping yarn very loosely based (or as they say in the movies, 'inspired by') my grandfather's travails and misadventures on the Lower East Side of Manhattan in the early 20th Century."
Wednesday, October 11, 2023
See What I Mean? by Charles Rammelkamp
Wednesday, September 20, 2023
Youth's Joyful Noise by Robert Cooperman
Five-Two alum Bob Cooperman tells me his latest Kelsay Books release, Youth's Joyful Noise, is a "last love letter to The Grateful Dead."
Monday, February 13, 2023
Robert Cooperman
VALENTINE'S DAY BLIND DATE - PAULIE
She was waiting in front of her house,
with a bottle of champagne, so I thought,
“Wow, this is going to be so cool!”
In the car we toasted the fizzy volcano,
then she nuzzled beside me, her lips
nibbling like I was an Andes Mint,
my head a spinning dreidel.
At the restaurant, we tore through the courses,
her fingers playing inky-dinky spider
under the table, so I didn’t know
which way was up, and didn’t care.
But just as I was reaching for my Visa card,
she whipped out a piece the size
of the big guns on the USS Missouri,
took my wallet, everyone’s cash,
emptied the till, then grabbed my car keys,
and was gone like smoke blown
off a battlefield by a stiff wind.
After the cops grilled me
like a cheap cut of meat, I phoned
my brother’s wife Cindy, with murder
in my heart: her setting me up
with Bonnie and Clyde’s granddaughter,
though if Crystal had asked me
to go on the lam with her,
or even taken me hostage,
I’d have been out the door faster
than a steel rabbit at the dog track.
Gerald So's YouTube video reading of "Valentine's Day Blind Date...":
Subscribe and turn on Notifications for Channel 52.
Bob confesses: "Believe it or not, I read about this in the local paper; I may have embellished a tad, but the bones of the story were right in the small article. Sometimes art does follow life."
ROBERT COOPERMAN's latest collections are Go Play Outside (Apprentice House) and Reefer Madness (Kelsay Books). Forthcoming from Kelsay Books is A Nightmare on Horseback.
She was waiting in front of her house,
with a bottle of champagne, so I thought,
“Wow, this is going to be so cool!”
In the car we toasted the fizzy volcano,
then she nuzzled beside me, her lips
nibbling like I was an Andes Mint,
my head a spinning dreidel.
At the restaurant, we tore through the courses,
her fingers playing inky-dinky spider
under the table, so I didn’t know
which way was up, and didn’t care.
But just as I was reaching for my Visa card,
she whipped out a piece the size
of the big guns on the USS Missouri,
took my wallet, everyone’s cash,
emptied the till, then grabbed my car keys,
and was gone like smoke blown
off a battlefield by a stiff wind.
After the cops grilled me
like a cheap cut of meat, I phoned
my brother’s wife Cindy, with murder
in my heart: her setting me up
with Bonnie and Clyde’s granddaughter,
though if Crystal had asked me
to go on the lam with her,
or even taken me hostage,
I’d have been out the door faster
than a steel rabbit at the dog track.
Gerald So's YouTube video reading of "Valentine's Day Blind Date...":
Subscribe and turn on Notifications for Channel 52.
Bob confesses: "Believe it or not, I read about this in the local paper; I may have embellished a tad, but the bones of the story were right in the small article. Sometimes art does follow life."
ROBERT COOPERMAN's latest collections are Go Play Outside (Apprentice House) and Reefer Madness (Kelsay Books). Forthcoming from Kelsay Books is A Nightmare on Horseback.
Monday, January 16, 2023
Robert Cooperman
GEORGE SANTOS, REPUBLICAN REPRESENTATIVE-ELECT FROM NEW YORK'S THIRD CONGRESSIONAL DISTRICT
So I embellished? Like that gimp Libbo,
FDR, never embellished, but to Dems,
he’s a greater warrior than Robert E. Lee.
Like The Rail Splitter never embellished?
Talk about career padding! Show me
his callouses, and still that RINO’s
as close to Jesus Christ
as this country’s ever seen.
And who says I didn’t work at Goldman Sachs?
No record of my employment? Off-book, baby,
looking discreetly into irregularities
by their traders and the execs.
And claiming to be Jew-ish: incredibly brave
in this age of anti-Semitic white nationalists,
Neo-Nazis, and violent Holocaust deniers.
Believe me, any contributions from Jews
didn’t come close to the hate raining down
on me like fire and brimstone.
And if you think I’ll say where the 700 thou
came from to finance my campaign,
there are things a gentleman doesn’t talk about,
and I’m nothing if not a gentleman.
Gerald So's YouTube video reading of "George Santos...":
Subscribe and turn on Notifications for Channel 52.
Bob confesses: "Since Republicans are brazen, never-back-down liars, I thought Santos' response to his accusers should be one of unabashed chutzpah (Yiddish, for unmitigated gall), not only proudly crowing he did lie, but dragging the decent name of better men into the mud with his."
ROBERT COOPERMAN's latest collections are Go Play Outside (Apprentice House) and Reefer Madness (Kelsay Books). Forthcoming from Kelsay Books is A Nightmare on Horseback.
So I embellished? Like that gimp Libbo,
FDR, never embellished, but to Dems,
he’s a greater warrior than Robert E. Lee.
Like The Rail Splitter never embellished?
Talk about career padding! Show me
his callouses, and still that RINO’s
as close to Jesus Christ
as this country’s ever seen.
And who says I didn’t work at Goldman Sachs?
No record of my employment? Off-book, baby,
looking discreetly into irregularities
by their traders and the execs.
And claiming to be Jew-ish: incredibly brave
in this age of anti-Semitic white nationalists,
Neo-Nazis, and violent Holocaust deniers.
Believe me, any contributions from Jews
didn’t come close to the hate raining down
on me like fire and brimstone.
And if you think I’ll say where the 700 thou
came from to finance my campaign,
there are things a gentleman doesn’t talk about,
and I’m nothing if not a gentleman.
Gerald So's YouTube video reading of "George Santos...":
Subscribe and turn on Notifications for Channel 52.
Bob confesses: "Since Republicans are brazen, never-back-down liars, I thought Santos' response to his accusers should be one of unabashed chutzpah (Yiddish, for unmitigated gall), not only proudly crowing he did lie, but dragging the decent name of better men into the mud with his."
ROBERT COOPERMAN's latest collections are Go Play Outside (Apprentice House) and Reefer Madness (Kelsay Books). Forthcoming from Kelsay Books is A Nightmare on Horseback.
Monday, September 26, 2022
Robert Cooperman
BOMB THREAT
In high school, we’d sometimes
be rushed from the building:
a bomb threat sirened in,
some kid unprepared
for the midterm or final.
Running past our frowning teachers
and the vice principal glaring
divine retribution, we’d laugh
our heads off: the rest of the day ours,
the bomb squad taking hours,
with their sniffer dogs,
before giving the all-clear,
though always the unlikely chance
a psychopath with a grudge
had planted a bomb near
the chem lab or in the cafeteria.
Now, vacationing in France,
we read the email:
your campus evacuated,
“In an abundance of caution,”
at a bomb threat on this first day
of summer school finals.
“Probably some kid too busy
partying,” we think, though
always the fear of nut jobs
pissed off they no longer
rule the whole world:
the bastards too stupid
to realize too much of it
is still theirs.
Gerald So's YouTube reading of "Bomb Threat":
Subscribe and turn on Notifications for Channel 52.
Bob confesses: "After self-quarantining for two years, my wife and I finally visited her family in France this summer. While Beth was scrolling through her e-mails, she found one about a bomb threat called into her college campus, back in Denver. Thankfully, it was a hoax, but it brought back memories of when kids in my high school would call in threats if they hadn't studied for a big exam. And the chance to take a swipe at the vicious-idiot right wing was too tempting to resist."
ROBERT COOPERMAN's latest collections are Go Play Outside (Apprentice House) and Reefer Madness (Kelsay Books). Forthcoming from Kelsay Books is A Nightmare on Horseback.
In high school, we’d sometimes
be rushed from the building:
a bomb threat sirened in,
some kid unprepared
for the midterm or final.
Running past our frowning teachers
and the vice principal glaring
divine retribution, we’d laugh
our heads off: the rest of the day ours,
the bomb squad taking hours,
with their sniffer dogs,
before giving the all-clear,
though always the unlikely chance
a psychopath with a grudge
had planted a bomb near
the chem lab or in the cafeteria.
Now, vacationing in France,
we read the email:
your campus evacuated,
“In an abundance of caution,”
at a bomb threat on this first day
of summer school finals.
“Probably some kid too busy
partying,” we think, though
always the fear of nut jobs
pissed off they no longer
rule the whole world:
the bastards too stupid
to realize too much of it
is still theirs.
Gerald So's YouTube reading of "Bomb Threat":
Subscribe and turn on Notifications for Channel 52.
Bob confesses: "After self-quarantining for two years, my wife and I finally visited her family in France this summer. While Beth was scrolling through her e-mails, she found one about a bomb threat called into her college campus, back in Denver. Thankfully, it was a hoax, but it brought back memories of when kids in my high school would call in threats if they hadn't studied for a big exam. And the chance to take a swipe at the vicious-idiot right wing was too tempting to resist."
ROBERT COOPERMAN's latest collections are Go Play Outside (Apprentice House) and Reefer Madness (Kelsay Books). Forthcoming from Kelsay Books is A Nightmare on Horseback.
Monday, July 4, 2022
Robert Cooperman
THE HUSNOCK
A Star Trek: Next Generation episode
featured The Husnock: a race of highly
intelligent, incredibly brutal creatures;
but when they tried to destroy a small planet,
they faced the wrath of a previously pacifist
omnipotent being, and when they killed
his mortal wife and everyone else on his planet,
he confessed to Captain Picard
that he’d wiped out all the Husnock.
“What do you mean by all?” Picard,
with growing dread, demanded,
“all of the attacking ships?”
“No,” the being answered, “every last one
of them in the universe, all 50 billion.”
Forgive me, but I’d be tempted: starting
with Putin, his pals, his lick-spittle generals,
then the Russian army, which can't
defeat Ukraine, so is rendering it
into a giant, rubble-strewn body bag;
then every Russian who fell for
Putin’s bullshit propaganda, and then...
“You’d be doing,” you’d accuse, “exactly
what psycho-Putin and his goons did.”
If I were a better man, I’d agree.
But I’m not, so allow me my impotent
fantasy-rage, because at this point,
good riddance to bad fucking garbage.
Gerald So's YouTube video reading of "The Husnock":
Subscribe and turn on Notifications for Channel 52.
Bob confesses: "A few days before I wrote this poem, I was talking to a likewise Star Trek: Next Generation loving-friend and I remembered the episode with The Husnock, a race of utter brutes who really get theirs. I'd mentioned in passing that I wished someone would do a Husnock on Putin and his cronies and generals and the Russian army and all of them. The idea for a poem about the Russian invaders as present-day Husnock, and what Russia deserved, percolated in my head until it hit me how the poem had to go. It's kind of a riff on the thought game we played as kids: if you could go back in time and had total omnipotence, could you bring yourself to kill Hitler? Hell yeah."
ROBERT COOPERMAN's latest collections are Go Play Outside (Apprentice House) and Reefer Madness (Kelsay Books). Forthcoming from Kelsay Books is A Nightmare on Horseback.
A Star Trek: Next Generation episode
featured The Husnock: a race of highly
intelligent, incredibly brutal creatures;
but when they tried to destroy a small planet,
they faced the wrath of a previously pacifist
omnipotent being, and when they killed
his mortal wife and everyone else on his planet,
he confessed to Captain Picard
that he’d wiped out all the Husnock.
“What do you mean by all?” Picard,
with growing dread, demanded,
“all of the attacking ships?”
“No,” the being answered, “every last one
of them in the universe, all 50 billion.”
Forgive me, but I’d be tempted: starting
with Putin, his pals, his lick-spittle generals,
then the Russian army, which can't
defeat Ukraine, so is rendering it
into a giant, rubble-strewn body bag;
then every Russian who fell for
Putin’s bullshit propaganda, and then...
“You’d be doing,” you’d accuse, “exactly
what psycho-Putin and his goons did.”
If I were a better man, I’d agree.
But I’m not, so allow me my impotent
fantasy-rage, because at this point,
good riddance to bad fucking garbage.
Gerald So's YouTube video reading of "The Husnock":
Subscribe and turn on Notifications for Channel 52.
Bob confesses: "A few days before I wrote this poem, I was talking to a likewise Star Trek: Next Generation loving-friend and I remembered the episode with The Husnock, a race of utter brutes who really get theirs. I'd mentioned in passing that I wished someone would do a Husnock on Putin and his cronies and generals and the Russian army and all of them. The idea for a poem about the Russian invaders as present-day Husnock, and what Russia deserved, percolated in my head until it hit me how the poem had to go. It's kind of a riff on the thought game we played as kids: if you could go back in time and had total omnipotence, could you bring yourself to kill Hitler? Hell yeah."
ROBERT COOPERMAN's latest collections are Go Play Outside (Apprentice House) and Reefer Madness (Kelsay Books). Forthcoming from Kelsay Books is A Nightmare on Horseback.
Monday, April 11, 2022
Robert Cooperman
DEATH BY VENDING MACHINE
"Thirteen people a year are killed by vending machines." —Charles Rammelkamp
What about us? How many of us
are killed each year by thugs?
Every time someone stomps up
with a fistful of change or bills,
I cringe, fearing if I don’t spew out
the candy or soda or condom
in a nanosecond to the horny bastard,
I’ll be beaten and stomped.
I have cracks in my window, dents
in my casing where I’ve been brutalized,
though so far, lucky not to be junked for scrap,
like so many of my brothers and sisters.
But I dread that day is coming.
No wonder we lose it and strike back: the thief
trying to steal a Mars Bars or scoop out
all the change and bills in our bellies?
Call us Old Testament, but shouldn’t
he lose a hand because of his thieving fingers?
The thug who shoves us like a bully
threatening a scrawny, eye-glassed kid
toting a load of library books?
We’re justified in falling on the cretin,
and if the ambulance shrieks up too late,
or not at all, well, vicious should hurt.
And if our attacker fumes our chocolate
looks older than a redwood, drier than the Gobi
is that our fault? Blame the greedy stock-guy
holding back fresh bars and letting sodas go flat
as dinner plates kids ruin their appetite for,
by scarfing the crap we’re made to dispense
and wouldn’t, if we had any say in the matter.
Gerald So's YouTube video reading of "Death by Vending Machine":
Subscribe and turn on Notifications for Channel 52.
Bob confesses: "I thought why not take the beleaguered vending machine's point of view and complain about the abusive treatment the machines are subjected to by humans, how we take out our frustrations on inanimate objects and how'd we like it if they decided to get even."
ROBERT COOPERMAN's latest collections are REEFER MADNESS (Kelsay Books) and GO PLAY OUTSIDE (Apprentice House). The former is partly about Cooperman's misspent youth and partly inspired by a news article that stated the Girl Scouts of Colorado were cool with troop members selling cookies outside of pot shops; the latter is a love letter to Cooperman's lifelong unrequited romance with basketball.
"Thirteen people a year are killed by vending machines." —Charles Rammelkamp
What about us? How many of us
are killed each year by thugs?
Every time someone stomps up
with a fistful of change or bills,
I cringe, fearing if I don’t spew out
the candy or soda or condom
in a nanosecond to the horny bastard,
I’ll be beaten and stomped.
I have cracks in my window, dents
in my casing where I’ve been brutalized,
though so far, lucky not to be junked for scrap,
like so many of my brothers and sisters.
But I dread that day is coming.
No wonder we lose it and strike back: the thief
trying to steal a Mars Bars or scoop out
all the change and bills in our bellies?
Call us Old Testament, but shouldn’t
he lose a hand because of his thieving fingers?
The thug who shoves us like a bully
threatening a scrawny, eye-glassed kid
toting a load of library books?
We’re justified in falling on the cretin,
and if the ambulance shrieks up too late,
or not at all, well, vicious should hurt.
And if our attacker fumes our chocolate
looks older than a redwood, drier than the Gobi
is that our fault? Blame the greedy stock-guy
holding back fresh bars and letting sodas go flat
as dinner plates kids ruin their appetite for,
by scarfing the crap we’re made to dispense
and wouldn’t, if we had any say in the matter.
Gerald So's YouTube video reading of "Death by Vending Machine":
Subscribe and turn on Notifications for Channel 52.
Bob confesses: "I thought why not take the beleaguered vending machine's point of view and complain about the abusive treatment the machines are subjected to by humans, how we take out our frustrations on inanimate objects and how'd we like it if they decided to get even."
ROBERT COOPERMAN's latest collections are REEFER MADNESS (Kelsay Books) and GO PLAY OUTSIDE (Apprentice House). The former is partly about Cooperman's misspent youth and partly inspired by a news article that stated the Girl Scouts of Colorado were cool with troop members selling cookies outside of pot shops; the latter is a love letter to Cooperman's lifelong unrequited romance with basketball.
Monday, August 16, 2021
Robert Cooperman
AN OPEN LETTER FROM A FUNERAL DIRECTOR TO THE ANTI-VAXXERS
I thank you all! Business is booming,
cases rising like Hurricane Katrina
from so many refusing to wear masks,
claiming they’re immortal, or the virus
is a hoax, so a big shout-out to the crew at FOX,
from Murdoch down to good ole Tuck.
Don’t go blaming me: I haven’t
infected anyone, just taken advantage
of imbeciles who had no problem
taking the flu seriously enough
to get vaccinated, but Covid?
If their god, Donald, tells them
it’s nothing to worry about,
they’ll believe any crap
that flim-flam artist shovels at them.
When I was a kid, I loved Bugs Bunny.
“What a maroon!” he’d smirk
after befuddling Elmer Fudd.
Now, enough maroons get wheeled
in here for me to send our kids
to the most expensive colleges.
And Marie can go on the shopping spree
of a lifetime: but online, no way I’ll let her
into a brick and mortar Nieman-Marcus.
Fools believe it’s safe to mingle; I know better.
Gerald So's YouTube video reading of "An Open Letter...":
Subscribe and turn on Notifications for Channel 52.
Bob confesses: "It struck me that mortuaries must be making out like bandits, during the pandemic. So this poem was my paean to human idiocy and fecklessness. If you don't believe in Covid, Covid believes in you. And if you think the government shouldn't tell you what to do, sometimes the government, like Mom, knows best."
ROBERT COOPERMAN's latest collection is The Ghosts and Bones of Troy (Aldrich Press). Forthcoming from Apprentice House is Go Play Outside, which chronicles Cooperman's lifelong one-way love affair with basketball. Also just available is the chapbook, All Our Fare-Thee-Wells from Finishing Line Press.
I thank you all! Business is booming,
cases rising like Hurricane Katrina
from so many refusing to wear masks,
claiming they’re immortal, or the virus
is a hoax, so a big shout-out to the crew at FOX,
from Murdoch down to good ole Tuck.
Don’t go blaming me: I haven’t
infected anyone, just taken advantage
of imbeciles who had no problem
taking the flu seriously enough
to get vaccinated, but Covid?
If their god, Donald, tells them
it’s nothing to worry about,
they’ll believe any crap
that flim-flam artist shovels at them.
When I was a kid, I loved Bugs Bunny.
“What a maroon!” he’d smirk
after befuddling Elmer Fudd.
Now, enough maroons get wheeled
in here for me to send our kids
to the most expensive colleges.
And Marie can go on the shopping spree
of a lifetime: but online, no way I’ll let her
into a brick and mortar Nieman-Marcus.
Fools believe it’s safe to mingle; I know better.
Gerald So's YouTube video reading of "An Open Letter...":
Subscribe and turn on Notifications for Channel 52.
Bob confesses: "It struck me that mortuaries must be making out like bandits, during the pandemic. So this poem was my paean to human idiocy and fecklessness. If you don't believe in Covid, Covid believes in you. And if you think the government shouldn't tell you what to do, sometimes the government, like Mom, knows best."
ROBERT COOPERMAN's latest collection is The Ghosts and Bones of Troy (Aldrich Press). Forthcoming from Apprentice House is Go Play Outside, which chronicles Cooperman's lifelong one-way love affair with basketball. Also just available is the chapbook, All Our Fare-Thee-Wells from Finishing Line Press.
Monday, May 17, 2021
Robert Cooperman
FOOD SHOPPING IN A TIME OF PANDEMIC
We’re two of the lucky ones,
our groceries delivered, though
feelings of guilt it’s so easy,
while so many suffer food insecurity:
a polite way of saying they go hungry,
have to risk their health, their lives,
to shop in supermarkets.
But as I said, we’re among the lucky ones,
the ones with money, with credit cards,
the ones who don’t have to venture out,
like mice fearing the cat’s lurking jaws.
The ones who can order cookies,
pecan tarts, ice cream, not just vegetables,
provisions to make stews that last all week,
who can call up the local pizzeria,
the catering service, and pretend nothing
strange and dreadful has occurred,
that hundreds of thousands haven’t died
from Covid, gasping, alone, terrified.
That others haven’t been shot or choked
by the police in that other pandemic,
because they’re Black which, in America,
seems to be a capital offense.
So yes, we don’t have to worry about
being murdered, about empty bellies,
about not having chocolate chip cookies
for three o’clock snack time.
Gerald So's YouTube video reading of "Food Shopping..."
Subscribe and turn on Notifications for Channel 52.
Bob confesses: "This poem has been simmering for a while, the recognition that my wife and I are lucky, with enough resources to ride out Covid and with the right skin color to avoid being shot by trigger-happy cops, while others aren't nearly as fortunate."
ROBERT COOPERMAN's latest collection is The Ghosts and Bones of Troy (Aldrich Press). Forthcoming from Apprentice House is Go Play Outside, which chronicles Cooperman's lifelong one-way love affair with basketball. Also just available is the chapbook, All Our Fare-Thee-Wells from Finishing Line Press.
We’re two of the lucky ones,
our groceries delivered, though
feelings of guilt it’s so easy,
while so many suffer food insecurity:
a polite way of saying they go hungry,
have to risk their health, their lives,
to shop in supermarkets.
But as I said, we’re among the lucky ones,
the ones with money, with credit cards,
the ones who don’t have to venture out,
like mice fearing the cat’s lurking jaws.
The ones who can order cookies,
pecan tarts, ice cream, not just vegetables,
provisions to make stews that last all week,
who can call up the local pizzeria,
the catering service, and pretend nothing
strange and dreadful has occurred,
that hundreds of thousands haven’t died
from Covid, gasping, alone, terrified.
That others haven’t been shot or choked
by the police in that other pandemic,
because they’re Black which, in America,
seems to be a capital offense.
So yes, we don’t have to worry about
being murdered, about empty bellies,
about not having chocolate chip cookies
for three o’clock snack time.
Gerald So's YouTube video reading of "Food Shopping..."
Subscribe and turn on Notifications for Channel 52.
Bob confesses: "This poem has been simmering for a while, the recognition that my wife and I are lucky, with enough resources to ride out Covid and with the right skin color to avoid being shot by trigger-happy cops, while others aren't nearly as fortunate."
ROBERT COOPERMAN's latest collection is The Ghosts and Bones of Troy (Aldrich Press). Forthcoming from Apprentice House is Go Play Outside, which chronicles Cooperman's lifelong one-way love affair with basketball. Also just available is the chapbook, All Our Fare-Thee-Wells from Finishing Line Press.
Monday, January 25, 2021
Robert Cooperman
TASERMAN
Man, this really pisses me off,
not being able to use this baby
on Traitor Pelosi and watch
the bitch dance the spastic chicken
when I zap her with 50,000 volts.
Blotto, baby! Blotto!
She and the other traitors
hid and ran, bunch of damn cowards,
but the Pelosi jackpot would’ve been
sweeter than the Wife’s apple pies—
when I convince her
my blood pressure ain’t that high—
for the medal Trump would’ve
hung around my neck!
The talk of the neighborhood,
hell, of the country, saving us
from those Democrats so smug
to steal the election: Trump,
the rightful winner!
But we couldn’t flush them out,
so nothing to do now
but march away, fists raised
in victory, while I text the Wife
to tell her what a great day
it was for the country.
I shove my taser down
the front of my jeans,
and my fingers dance
to send the Wife a message,
and I feel the slightest buzzing
in my crotch, like the Wife’s
getting me in the mood.
Gabriel Hart reads "Taserman":
Subscribe and turn on Notifications for Channel 52.
Bob confesses: "As soon as I read that one of the neo-Nazis who'd attacked the Capitol and the Constitution had tased his genitals and suffered a heart attack and death as a result, thereby doing us all a favor and taking himself out of the gene pool, I knew I had to write about that genius of Darwinian self-destruction."
ROBERT COOPERMAN's latest chapbook is All Our Fare-Thee-Wells (Finishing Line Press), his latest love letter to the Grateful Dead. Forthcoming from Kelsay Books is Reefer Madness, half about his misspent youth, half about the Colorado Girl Scouts' decision to okay selling cookies in front of pot shops.
Man, this really pisses me off,
not being able to use this baby
on Traitor Pelosi and watch
the bitch dance the spastic chicken
when I zap her with 50,000 volts.
Blotto, baby! Blotto!
She and the other traitors
hid and ran, bunch of damn cowards,
but the Pelosi jackpot would’ve been
sweeter than the Wife’s apple pies—
when I convince her
my blood pressure ain’t that high—
for the medal Trump would’ve
hung around my neck!
The talk of the neighborhood,
hell, of the country, saving us
from those Democrats so smug
to steal the election: Trump,
the rightful winner!
But we couldn’t flush them out,
so nothing to do now
but march away, fists raised
in victory, while I text the Wife
to tell her what a great day
it was for the country.
I shove my taser down
the front of my jeans,
and my fingers dance
to send the Wife a message,
and I feel the slightest buzzing
in my crotch, like the Wife’s
getting me in the mood.
Gabriel Hart reads "Taserman":
Subscribe and turn on Notifications for Channel 52.
Bob confesses: "As soon as I read that one of the neo-Nazis who'd attacked the Capitol and the Constitution had tased his genitals and suffered a heart attack and death as a result, thereby doing us all a favor and taking himself out of the gene pool, I knew I had to write about that genius of Darwinian self-destruction."
ROBERT COOPERMAN's latest chapbook is All Our Fare-Thee-Wells (Finishing Line Press), his latest love letter to the Grateful Dead. Forthcoming from Kelsay Books is Reefer Madness, half about his misspent youth, half about the Colorado Girl Scouts' decision to okay selling cookies in front of pot shops.
Monday, November 9, 2020
Robert Cooperman
TRUMP AT THE CASKET OF JUSTICE RUTH BADER GINSBURG, REPOSING IN STATE
He bowed slightly and whispered,
as if to impart a heart-felt goodbye:
"Thanks, Bitch. Now I can get a Court
that respects, loves me, and will do anything
I ask, like deciding I can rule for life."
Then, when he started to straighten up
to strut away as if he’d slain a dragon,
the casket lid flew off; the draped
American flags winged at Trump's face
like flocks of outraged ravens,
and a small, steel-strong hand grabbed him
by his wrist, and hurled him onto
the velvet lining, Trump shrieking
to his Secret Service detail,
“Get the horse-faced slut off me!”
They shrugged helpless shoulders,
while the gathered mourners gasped,
and Trump failed to tear free.
A few observers noticed he was alone
in the casket, and others claimed
they saw a black-robed figure rising.
One young woman leapt up
the Supreme Court Building's steps,
and slammed shut the lid, the insides
thudding with his kicks, vibrating
with his screams, while a hole opened,
and the casket descended
with the gravity of the damned.
Gerald So reads "Trump at the Casket...":
Subscribe to Channel 52 for first view of new videos.
Bob confesses: "The poem was inspired by a doctored photo a friend had sent, of Trump leaning over the late Justice's casket, her arm protruding, giving the old devil the finger. So I took that image one further, and had her grabbing him, flinging him inside, while she rose to Heaven and Trump cast into hell, where he belongs."
ROBERT COOPERMAN's latest collection is The Ghosts and Bones of Troy (Kelsay Books). His most recent chapbook, All Our Fare-Thee-Wells, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.
He bowed slightly and whispered,
as if to impart a heart-felt goodbye:
"Thanks, Bitch. Now I can get a Court
that respects, loves me, and will do anything
I ask, like deciding I can rule for life."
Then, when he started to straighten up
to strut away as if he’d slain a dragon,
the casket lid flew off; the draped
American flags winged at Trump's face
like flocks of outraged ravens,
and a small, steel-strong hand grabbed him
by his wrist, and hurled him onto
the velvet lining, Trump shrieking
to his Secret Service detail,
“Get the horse-faced slut off me!”
They shrugged helpless shoulders,
while the gathered mourners gasped,
and Trump failed to tear free.
A few observers noticed he was alone
in the casket, and others claimed
they saw a black-robed figure rising.
One young woman leapt up
the Supreme Court Building's steps,
and slammed shut the lid, the insides
thudding with his kicks, vibrating
with his screams, while a hole opened,
and the casket descended
with the gravity of the damned.
Gerald So reads "Trump at the Casket...":
Subscribe to Channel 52 for first view of new videos.
Bob confesses: "The poem was inspired by a doctored photo a friend had sent, of Trump leaning over the late Justice's casket, her arm protruding, giving the old devil the finger. So I took that image one further, and had her grabbing him, flinging him inside, while she rose to Heaven and Trump cast into hell, where he belongs."
ROBERT COOPERMAN's latest collection is The Ghosts and Bones of Troy (Kelsay Books). His most recent chapbook, All Our Fare-Thee-Wells, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.
Monday, June 1, 2020
Robert Cooperman
TRUMP AND COVID-19
It’s going according to my fabulous plan
for re-election: New York collapsing,
all the libbos and minorities who hate my guts
for being richer than them, dying like litter runts,
so scratch their votes in November unless the cheating
Dems get their mail-in wish, which they won’t.
And all those Hispanics and blacks are dropping
in Miami and Tampa: two more Dem strongholds
that never gave me a fair break. And the lying
reporters dying off! I laugh whenever I hear
they’re gasping their last, their laptops silent forever.
And when I give my briefings, better than sinking
a sixty foot putt, to see those lying reporters’ numbers
thinned out to sitting at least six feet apart, though
it won’t do them any good; I’ve ordered my security
guys to smear their chairs with droplets: justice
for when they used to shout unfair questions,
and I shouted back they were hideous, to question Me!
If I can only get Fauci to drop dead! One less idiot
scientist to contradict me, when I say the economy
will be humming in a month, a miracle saving us!
You gotta believe, just like all the Evangelicals,
who love me for wanting to lock up abortionists.
Who knows better than me, skating every time
my enemies try to take me down with bogus claims
my true followers see right through. If my guys
are the only ones left alive to vote, a landslide
like no other, proof I’m the greatest president ever.
Gerald So reads "Trump and COVID-19":
Subscribe to Channel 52 for first view of new videos.
Bob confesses: "This poem was inspired by my rage against the lying rat bastard who has usurped the White House. Rather than write a rant, I thought it preferable to put words into his vile mouth that it wouldn't be a stretch for him to have actually said."
ROBERT COOPERMAN's two latest collections are riffs on The Odyssey: Lost on the Blood-Dark Sea (FutureCycle Press) and The Ghosts and Bones of Troy (Kelsay Books). Forthcoming from Finishing Line Press is All Our Fare-Thee-Wells, a love letter to the Grateful Dead.
It’s going according to my fabulous plan
for re-election: New York collapsing,
all the libbos and minorities who hate my guts
for being richer than them, dying like litter runts,
so scratch their votes in November unless the cheating
Dems get their mail-in wish, which they won’t.
And all those Hispanics and blacks are dropping
in Miami and Tampa: two more Dem strongholds
that never gave me a fair break. And the lying
reporters dying off! I laugh whenever I hear
they’re gasping their last, their laptops silent forever.
And when I give my briefings, better than sinking
a sixty foot putt, to see those lying reporters’ numbers
thinned out to sitting at least six feet apart, though
it won’t do them any good; I’ve ordered my security
guys to smear their chairs with droplets: justice
for when they used to shout unfair questions,
and I shouted back they were hideous, to question Me!
If I can only get Fauci to drop dead! One less idiot
scientist to contradict me, when I say the economy
will be humming in a month, a miracle saving us!
You gotta believe, just like all the Evangelicals,
who love me for wanting to lock up abortionists.
Who knows better than me, skating every time
my enemies try to take me down with bogus claims
my true followers see right through. If my guys
are the only ones left alive to vote, a landslide
like no other, proof I’m the greatest president ever.
Gerald So reads "Trump and COVID-19":
Subscribe to Channel 52 for first view of new videos.
Bob confesses: "This poem was inspired by my rage against the lying rat bastard who has usurped the White House. Rather than write a rant, I thought it preferable to put words into his vile mouth that it wouldn't be a stretch for him to have actually said."
ROBERT COOPERMAN's two latest collections are riffs on The Odyssey: Lost on the Blood-Dark Sea (FutureCycle Press) and The Ghosts and Bones of Troy (Kelsay Books). Forthcoming from Finishing Line Press is All Our Fare-Thee-Wells, a love letter to the Grateful Dead.
Monday, January 6, 2020
Robert Cooperman
OKLAHOMA'S OPEN CARRY LAW
At first, I wondered
why a governor who signed
an open carry law gleefully
as a kid tearing into
his Christmas present,
would also sign an executive order
freeing non-violent offenders.
Then it hit me: he wanted
those released felons hunted
by gun-loving supporters.
Sure those prisoners weren’t guilty
of armed robbery or manslaughter,
but who’s to say they won’t graduate
to more vicious crimes?
Besides, they defrauded, kited checks,
sold drugs to kids, bored housewives,
investment bankers, doctors, lawyers,
judges, morticians, and grannies,
thus contributing to the gutting
of America’s greatness.
So they deserve their heads blown off.
Not mentioned, they were released
into big game parks, to be tracked, stalked,
and blasted, their carcasses gutted,
cleaned and butchered into cheap cuts
of meat for neighborhoods
that were otherwise food deserts.
A win for the governor, his legislators,
supporters, and of course the deserving poor.
Gerald So reads "Oklahoma's Open Carry Law":
Subscribe to Channel 52 for first view of new videos.
Bob confesses: "A dear friend from Oklahoma wrote a while ago that the new governor had almost simultaneously instituted an open carry law and an amnesty for various classes of non-violent prisoners. I wondered why, and came up with this modest proposal/solution, sort of inspired by Swift and the story, 'The Most Dangerous Game'"
ROBERT COOPERMAN's latest collection is The Devil Who Raised Me (Lithic Press). Recently published was That Summer (Main Street Rag Publishing Company). Forthcoming from FutureCycle Press is Lost on the Blood-Dark Sea.
At first, I wondered
why a governor who signed
an open carry law gleefully
as a kid tearing into
his Christmas present,
would also sign an executive order
freeing non-violent offenders.
Then it hit me: he wanted
those released felons hunted
by gun-loving supporters.
Sure those prisoners weren’t guilty
of armed robbery or manslaughter,
but who’s to say they won’t graduate
to more vicious crimes?
Besides, they defrauded, kited checks,
sold drugs to kids, bored housewives,
investment bankers, doctors, lawyers,
judges, morticians, and grannies,
thus contributing to the gutting
of America’s greatness.
So they deserve their heads blown off.
Not mentioned, they were released
into big game parks, to be tracked, stalked,
and blasted, their carcasses gutted,
cleaned and butchered into cheap cuts
of meat for neighborhoods
that were otherwise food deserts.
A win for the governor, his legislators,
supporters, and of course the deserving poor.
Gerald So reads "Oklahoma's Open Carry Law":
Subscribe to Channel 52 for first view of new videos.
Bob confesses: "A dear friend from Oklahoma wrote a while ago that the new governor had almost simultaneously instituted an open carry law and an amnesty for various classes of non-violent prisoners. I wondered why, and came up with this modest proposal/solution, sort of inspired by Swift and the story, 'The Most Dangerous Game'"
ROBERT COOPERMAN's latest collection is The Devil Who Raised Me (Lithic Press). Recently published was That Summer (Main Street Rag Publishing Company). Forthcoming from FutureCycle Press is Lost on the Blood-Dark Sea.
Monday, November 5, 2018
Robert Cooperman
TRUMP AND THE MAIL BOMBS
No way was this anything but Dems
and CNN trying to steal my election.
I’m not actually running, which I will be,
and will win, in a landslide, in 2020,
unless the Damn Dems rig it with illegals
and dead people voting twice, and the blacks
who aren’t registered voting three, four times,
and scabs from other states casting ballots.
It’s my fabulous Make America Great Again
the mob of Enemies of America want to destroy.
So they caught this guy, this Cesar Sayoc,
and I bet he’s an FBI plant, since the Feds
hate me like rotten eggs. I bet he’s really
an illegal Mexican or from shit hole country
that wants to ship millions of terrorists here,
like that caravan moving up through Mexico
like a giant snake, to strangle my great country.
I further guarantee he’s got ties to the creeps
he “sent” pipe bombs to, the devices harmless,
only meant to scare my people into forgetting
what the Dems and Scummy Cesar are up to.
This guy will break under interrogation
if the Cheatin’ FBI lets me interrogate him;
he’ll admit he’s in cahoots with No Talent De Niro,
Droolin’ Joe, and the ringleader, Lyin’ Hilary.
Gerald So reads "Trump and the Mail Bombs":
Subscribe to Channel 52 for first view of new videos.
Bob confesses: "I was listening to the news, with horrified fascination, as more and more mailed pipe bombs were being discovered, thank goodness unexploded, when it occurred to me that in his twisted, evil mind, Trump would pin the blame on those he's created as his (and HIS) country's enemies, not on the real perpetrator, a twisted, Trump-loving, Democrat-hating violent sociopath. The poem just flowed from there like a fever dream."
ROBERT COOPERMAN's latest releases are the chapbook Saved by the Dead (yes, the Grateful Dead) and the full-length collections Their Wars (Kelsay Books), That Summer (Main Street Rag) and The Devil Who Raised Me (Lithic Press).
No way was this anything but Dems
and CNN trying to steal my election.
I’m not actually running, which I will be,
and will win, in a landslide, in 2020,
unless the Damn Dems rig it with illegals
and dead people voting twice, and the blacks
who aren’t registered voting three, four times,
and scabs from other states casting ballots.
It’s my fabulous Make America Great Again
the mob of Enemies of America want to destroy.
So they caught this guy, this Cesar Sayoc,
and I bet he’s an FBI plant, since the Feds
hate me like rotten eggs. I bet he’s really
an illegal Mexican or from shit hole country
that wants to ship millions of terrorists here,
like that caravan moving up through Mexico
like a giant snake, to strangle my great country.
I further guarantee he’s got ties to the creeps
he “sent” pipe bombs to, the devices harmless,
only meant to scare my people into forgetting
what the Dems and Scummy Cesar are up to.
This guy will break under interrogation
if the Cheatin’ FBI lets me interrogate him;
he’ll admit he’s in cahoots with No Talent De Niro,
Droolin’ Joe, and the ringleader, Lyin’ Hilary.
Gerald So reads "Trump and the Mail Bombs":
Subscribe to Channel 52 for first view of new videos.
Bob confesses: "I was listening to the news, with horrified fascination, as more and more mailed pipe bombs were being discovered, thank goodness unexploded, when it occurred to me that in his twisted, evil mind, Trump would pin the blame on those he's created as his (and HIS) country's enemies, not on the real perpetrator, a twisted, Trump-loving, Democrat-hating violent sociopath. The poem just flowed from there like a fever dream."
Monday, September 17, 2018
Robert Cooperman
FOUR MORE YEARS
That 1972 Election Night,
joints went around, to keep us
from thinking about Nixon,
that crook hell-bent on turning
the Constitution into toilet paper.
Still, we had to laugh when Ray
opened an umbrella and quipped,
"I'm sitting under the canopy
of American Democracy."
Another joint, more giggles;
with weed, we could at least laugh
while Nixon bludgeoned the republic.
Now, all the pot in Colorado
can’t raise even a slight smile,
with what the Orange Nightmare
is doing: threats of border walls,
racist rallies calling for prison
for anyone who disagrees with him;
soon, goose stepping millions
thrusting arms in that salute,
while he laughs and applauds:
power an even more potent high
than a joint, or ten, of primo weed.
Gerald So reads "Four More Years":
Subscribe to Channel 52 for first view of new videos.
Bob confesses: "A bunch of us were listening to the '72 elections, depressed over Nixon's landslide. One friend opened an umbrella and declared ironically he was sitting under the umbrella of American democracy. We laughed, but now, with Trump, the times seem too dire for gags, maybe even for poems. I hope not."
ROBERT COOPERMAN is the author of many collections. His latest chapbook is the just-published Saved by the Dead (yes, the Grateful Dead). Soon to be released is the full-length collection Their Wars (Kelsay Books), That Summer (Main Street Rag) and The Devil Who Raised Me (Lithic Press).
That 1972 Election Night,
joints went around, to keep us
from thinking about Nixon,
that crook hell-bent on turning
the Constitution into toilet paper.
Still, we had to laugh when Ray
opened an umbrella and quipped,
"I'm sitting under the canopy
of American Democracy."
Another joint, more giggles;
with weed, we could at least laugh
while Nixon bludgeoned the republic.
Now, all the pot in Colorado
can’t raise even a slight smile,
with what the Orange Nightmare
is doing: threats of border walls,
racist rallies calling for prison
for anyone who disagrees with him;
soon, goose stepping millions
thrusting arms in that salute,
while he laughs and applauds:
power an even more potent high
than a joint, or ten, of primo weed.
Gerald So reads "Four More Years":
Subscribe to Channel 52 for first view of new videos.
Bob confesses: "A bunch of us were listening to the '72 elections, depressed over Nixon's landslide. One friend opened an umbrella and declared ironically he was sitting under the umbrella of American democracy. We laughed, but now, with Trump, the times seem too dire for gags, maybe even for poems. I hope not."
ROBERT COOPERMAN is the author of many collections. His latest chapbook is the just-published Saved by the Dead (yes, the Grateful Dead). Soon to be released is the full-length collection Their Wars (Kelsay Books), That Summer (Main Street Rag) and The Devil Who Raised Me (Lithic Press).
Friday, April 6, 2018
Day 6: Charles Rammelkamp on "When I Crossed into Canada"
For Day 6 of 30 Days of the Five-Two, Charles Rammelkamp's commentary on Robert Cooperman's "When I Crossed into Canada". —Gerald So
While the war in Afghanistan is often called America’s longest war, sixteen years and counting, by some accounts the War in Vietnam lasted at least eighteen years. It certainly hung like a cloud over my youth, and, moreover, it was mainly fought by American kids who’d been conscripted into the army without any say in the matter.
Ken Burns’ recent 18-hour PBS documentary film series renewed an interest in the war, which has never really gone away, despite the nearly forty-five years since American withdrawal. Bob Cooperman's recent poetry collection, Draft Board Blues, likewise evokes that era in vivid detail. Hundreds of thousands of lives ruined for a war politicians deemed necessary and continued to support only because they didn't have the courage to admit their mistakes. Many died, many more were permanently maimed, scarred physically and psychologically. Others went into exile.
But Cooperman's Five-Two poem, “When I Crossed into Canada,” from October 2017, which is not in his collection, addresses the situation of draft dodgers who fled to Canada and makes their sacrifice relevant again. He describes the people he encountered in 1968, "glancing over shoulders, / as if fearful ... they’d be thrown out, scooped / up by the draft like strays by dogcatchers." They wore "the hollow look of exiles," forever denied their friends, lovers, home.
And yet, watching the KKK and Nazi sympathizers running amok in Charlottesville, the narrator gets in touch with an old friend from Charlottesville, now seeking asylum himself, in Toronto.
—Charles Rammelkamp
While the war in Afghanistan is often called America’s longest war, sixteen years and counting, by some accounts the War in Vietnam lasted at least eighteen years. It certainly hung like a cloud over my youth, and, moreover, it was mainly fought by American kids who’d been conscripted into the army without any say in the matter.
But Cooperman's Five-Two poem, “When I Crossed into Canada,” from October 2017, which is not in his collection, addresses the situation of draft dodgers who fled to Canada and makes their sacrifice relevant again. He describes the people he encountered in 1968, "glancing over shoulders, / as if fearful ... they’d be thrown out, scooped / up by the draft like strays by dogcatchers." They wore "the hollow look of exiles," forever denied their friends, lovers, home.
And yet, watching the KKK and Nazi sympathizers running amok in Charlottesville, the narrator gets in touch with an old friend from Charlottesville, now seeking asylum himself, in Toronto.
"You should get out too," he advised,
"while you still can," paranoia a sane response,
ever since the early morning of November 9th.
—Charles Rammelkamp
Monday, October 16, 2017
Robert Cooperman
WHEN I CROSSED INTO CANADA
When I crossed into Canada in 1968,
our bus was stopped at the border:
valises, knapsacks, and duffel bags
searched for drugs, for false bottoms
to hide money, for those kids
who’d no intention of going back.
In Montreal, I checked out a coffeehouse
of draft dodgers playing chess, reading,
whispering strategy, glancing over shoulders,
as if fearful if they made too much noise—
like in libraries—they'd be thrown out, scooped
up by the draft like strays by dogcatchers.
Conversely, they wore the hollow look of exiles,
who can never see family, friends, lovers again,
never breathe the dirty American air they loved.
So I left and came home.
Now, watching the Charlottesville riots,
neo-Nazis beating counter-protesters,
a crazed Klanner plowing his car into a crowd,
killing a young woman, wounding scores more,
I email an old friend who worked in that college town
and retired there. I ask how he is: seeking asylum,
he said, in Toronto, making his way from Nova Scotia.
"You should get out too," he advised,
"while you still can," paranoia a sane response,
ever since the early morning of November 9th.
Gerald So reads "When I Crossed into Canada":
Subscribe to Channel 52 for first view of new videos.
Cooperman confesses: "I emailed a friend in Charlottesville, to see if he was okay in the wake of the riots. He replied that he and his partner were in Prince Edward Island, on their way to Montreal to seek political asylum. That brought back memories of when I went to Montreal in 1968, not for political reasons, though the two times now seem frighteningly similar."
ROBERT COOPERMAN's latest collections are Draft Board Blues (FutureCycle Press) and City Hat Frame Factory (Aldrich Press). In the Colorado Gold Fever Mountains (Western Reflections Books) won the Colorado Book Award for Poetry.
When I crossed into Canada in 1968,
our bus was stopped at the border:
valises, knapsacks, and duffel bags
searched for drugs, for false bottoms
to hide money, for those kids
who’d no intention of going back.
In Montreal, I checked out a coffeehouse
of draft dodgers playing chess, reading,
whispering strategy, glancing over shoulders,
as if fearful if they made too much noise—
like in libraries—they'd be thrown out, scooped
up by the draft like strays by dogcatchers.
Conversely, they wore the hollow look of exiles,
who can never see family, friends, lovers again,
never breathe the dirty American air they loved.
So I left and came home.
Now, watching the Charlottesville riots,
neo-Nazis beating counter-protesters,
a crazed Klanner plowing his car into a crowd,
killing a young woman, wounding scores more,
I email an old friend who worked in that college town
and retired there. I ask how he is: seeking asylum,
he said, in Toronto, making his way from Nova Scotia.
"You should get out too," he advised,
"while you still can," paranoia a sane response,
ever since the early morning of November 9th.
Gerald So reads "When I Crossed into Canada":
Subscribe to Channel 52 for first view of new videos.
Cooperman confesses: "I emailed a friend in Charlottesville, to see if he was okay in the wake of the riots. He replied that he and his partner were in Prince Edward Island, on their way to Montreal to seek political asylum. That brought back memories of when I went to Montreal in 1968, not for political reasons, though the two times now seem frighteningly similar."
Monday, June 19, 2017
Robert Cooperman
SILENCERS
The state of Tennessee
wants to pass a bill
that would legalize silencers
on their already approved
open-carry weapons:
So when fathers blast potential
burglars because they’re, you know,
black or brown or Muslim terrorists
or all three, and will murder us all,
the shots won’t wake the kids,
who’ve been playing first-person
shooter videos after they zipped
through homework in maybe five minutes
of tiger-maw yawning boredom.
Nothing more important
than a good night’s sleep, after all,
along with a hearty breakfast.
Gerald So reads "Silencers":
Subscribe to Channel 52 for first view of new videos.
Cooperman confesses: "This poem grew from an email from a friend from Tennessee, which he said, in the infinite wisdom of its Republican controlled legislature is trying to make the purchase and use of silencers on the state's open carry handguns legal. This struck me as patently ridiculous: isn't it enough you can pack heat on your hip and scare the hell out of non-gun carrying citizens who might, God forbid, be Democrats?"
ROBERT COOPERMAN's latest collection, Draft Dodger Blues (FutureCycle Press = FutureCycle.org, for orders) is just out. His other recent collection is City Hat Frame Factory, from Aldrich Press.
The state of Tennessee
wants to pass a bill
that would legalize silencers
on their already approved
open-carry weapons:
So when fathers blast potential
burglars because they’re, you know,
black or brown or Muslim terrorists
or all three, and will murder us all,
the shots won’t wake the kids,
who’ve been playing first-person
shooter videos after they zipped
through homework in maybe five minutes
of tiger-maw yawning boredom.
Nothing more important
than a good night’s sleep, after all,
along with a hearty breakfast.
Gerald So reads "Silencers":
Subscribe to Channel 52 for first view of new videos.
Cooperman confesses: "This poem grew from an email from a friend from Tennessee, which he said, in the infinite wisdom of its Republican controlled legislature is trying to make the purchase and use of silencers on the state's open carry handguns legal. This struck me as patently ridiculous: isn't it enough you can pack heat on your hip and scare the hell out of non-gun carrying citizens who might, God forbid, be Democrats?"
ROBERT COOPERMAN's latest collection, Draft Dodger Blues (FutureCycle Press = FutureCycle.org, for orders) is just out. His other recent collection is City Hat Frame Factory, from Aldrich Press.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)