Corey Heiferman

MFA Sample from a Parallel Universe


ISSUE 67 | CAMP | AUG 2016

For Thomas F. Foley, Esq.

Stuck in a mindset most bironic,
(I dare not call it melancholy)
Running low on gin and chronic,
Terribly bored of sin and folly,
Seeking a mystic guide laconic
To debunk the lies of Walter Raleigh;
I flew Delta direct to Delphi,
Met a priestess, took some selfies.

Said she, “you know yourself—you’re vain!
Why the journey? Why the schlep?”
Said I, “you know yourself—you’re plain!”
I came here ’cuz I felt bereft
Of Purpose—give me an aim
To consume bored days;
I’ll have none of that atavic Pokémon craze!

She sang of Syrians swimming the Hellespont—
Spritely, starving, fugitive Leanders
Called “migrants” by the teleprompt
But “refugees” by Bernie Sanders;
Pseudofascists spew jealous taunts,
Weak-spined centrists start to pander,
Meanwhile, arms flail beneath the waves:
Only Allah can find their graves.

Phaselus ille quem videtis
(Gaze ye at this humble vessel)
A pox upon whoever made this!
’Twas rusted even in its trestle—
The galley stocked with lemonade grist,
The poop adjoining the mess hall;
My aim: to embark on a charity mission
Saving lost souls from watery perdition.

Sailors strode by in handsome pairs,
But just for show, a harmless kink,
Join my crew? They wouldn’t dare!
So I posted ads and clicked on links;
Resumes, resumes everywhere,
But all they do is think!
One stood out, a yachtsman of fame—
Forced to Leave, he couldn’t Remain.
[Thus my tale could easily ramble on,
But we’ve all had enough of poor David Cameron.]

I soon abandoned my seagoing penance,
(Could Bose have saved us form the Sirens?)
All the boats I bought were lemons,
And you can easily tell I’m no Byron,
Instead, I Soul Cycled with a vengeance,
Rictus-winced endorphins firing
On the brink of ketoacidosis,
I could no longer engage in such (metem)psychosis.

Then I became prosaic and smug
And grew sick of these sing-songy stanzas,
Strolled Prospect Park with a pugilant pug
Whispering Walt Whitman’s “Song of the Answerer,”
“You know, people here used to get mugged!”
Squealed an over-trained post-modern dancer—
Another squeal followed: “Oh gosh, Lord!”
The thief sped away on a hoverboard.

Kids played a circle game decked out in camo,
At first it seemed innocent duck duck
Goose-stepping ’round burly gents bundled in flannel,
Peltering moisturized faces with muck,
Broadcasted live on a pay-per-view channel—
A performance staged for a satellite truck.
The rascals sang ’midst their hysterics,
Here are the choicest of their lyrics:

Law and Order’s breaking down,
Breaking down, breaking down,
Law and Order’s breaking down,
Crooked Hillary!

Take the key and lock her up,
Lock her up, lock her up,
Take the key and lock her up,
Crooked Hillary!

I let the pug loose
On the unruly bunch—
The kids grew confused,
The crew broke for lunch,
I won’t say more, and I have an excuse,
Deadline looms, a Hypocrite’s crunch.
Press “Like” if you want a sequel,
But enough for now of this jangly treacle.