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Tuesday, May 31, 2005

SELECTED SHORT SUBJECT

by James Penha


Even as the young Afghan man was dying before them, 
his American jailers continued to torment him. 


ESTRAGON: I wasn't doing anything.                                                            
VLADIMIR: Then why did they beat you?                                                               
ESTRAGON: I don't know.                                                            
VLADIMIR: Ah no, Gogo, the truth is there are                                                            
things that escape you that don't escape me,                                                            
you must feel it yourself.
--Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot

 

Like little Lou Costello mistaken

for a man with brains to power

the Frankenstein monster

and so shackled by the undead,

Dilawar stutters to explain

he doesn’t know.

In the audience, we love

fear in burlesque:

 

     “H-H-H . . . He-He-He . . .” He 

 

swirls his index finger in space

to stir up a scream, 

but inspires merely a wheeze or two:

 

     “H-H-H . . . He-He-He . . .” He 

 

tries two fingers in his mouth

to whistle for help

but only blows:

 

     “Wh-Wh-Wh- . . .” We

 

laugh like crazy waiting for it every time:

the sudden esophogeal liberation:


     “Hey, Abbott! Hey, Abbott!”

 

But when Bud arrives the monsters hide

so Bud too smacks Lou 

demanding to know what’s wrong?

when nothing’s wrong!

Without words

for what he can not comprehend,

Lou dribbles 

and gibbers,

and we are all as hysterical

as Military Intelligence Buds at Bagram

smacking Dilawar with peritoneal strikes 

to get him to holla:

 

     “Allah! Allah!”

 

Of course they drop his drawers—

a gag as old as Minsky’s. And ask—

get this:

 

“You want some water?”
Little Dilawar nods.

“NIAGARA FALLS!”

And a bucketful is poured on his head.

 

Boffo!

 

The bucket hooding his noggin, 

Dilawar in the dark loses perspective;

he trips on his own underwear.

 

Ba dum doom!

 

We know what’s next--

A few peritoneal strikes and away we go:

 

     “Hey, Allah! Hey, Allah!”

 

We just can’t stand it!

Neither Dilawar.

By now every time MI Buds raise him up,

his skinny legs flop and flip like Ray Bolger’s

on a bad straw day.

 

For the Base sawbones,

MI Buds stretch Dilawar’s arms

round their shoulders

to re-erect him one last time,

before they let him

c

 o

  l                                                            Plinkety-plunkety

   l                                                           Plunkety-plunk.

    a

     p

      se with a xylophone riff. 

                                                               

     So the doc inquires,

     “Has this happened before?

     Dilawar nods.

     “Well, it’s happened again!”

                                                               Da da da da da da

                                                               da da da da da da

                                                               da da da da da da da da

                                                                        

And MI Buds figure if Dilawar can’t stand on his own two feet,

they’ll hoist him up with chains

and shackle him to the ceiling

by his wrists

like Houdini.

 

But MI Buds have made a monstrous mistake:

 

Houdini wasn’t funny.


 James Penha edits The New Verse News.