We court our own defeat.
Aqua Regia in our cups
Hubris curled up at our feet.
The throne is a fickle thing,
Jesters are sequestered
By whims of alabaster
Rose crowned Queens.

The King is an utter fool,
Barons are not your friend.
The Joker always finds
The dungeon in the end.
Oubliettes of our own design,
Gossamer wrought chains
Webs spun within our minds.

Most poets now are boring clowns
Meandering, confessional;
Their muses quick to pawn their crowns
Claiming to be professional;
Credentialed by some stuffy place
That ruined all poetic grace.

Miss Chang is one. The current breed:
Murmuring, sighing in her tea—
Exhibiting neurotic need
To tell sad stories. Let her be.
She’s found her niche. She does her schtick
Repeating endlessly one trick.

We note the symptoms and the signs:
Turning dull maudlin thoughts to prose,
Then making of it ragged lines
(Post-modern sickness clearly shows.)
But adding line-breaks here and there
Is simply words in disrepair.

Poor dear, it’s clear she dwells in grief
(And follows funerals to the bank…)
We realize, with some relief
It’s not her fault. We have to thank
The avant-boring visionaries
Praising her obituaries;

Milquetoast academic schools
Of well-degreed neurotic fish
Who spawn such vapid bubbling fools
As fit for neither hook nor dish.
And thus, we’re left with Rupi Kaur
In this, the muses’ dullest hour.

Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

        The People’s Liberation Army Has No Veto Over Christmas


“The Halloween and Costume Association warned that tariffs are threatening to ‘wipe out Halloween and severely disrupt Christmas unless urgent action is taken.’"

                                          -Axios.com, 26 April 2025


God’s wisdom-speakers from the sunrise East
Mysterious messengers in free service to Truth
To Bethlehem, where the world is to be renewed
Come bearing gifts without the comrades’ permission

A sign is planted bravely on your grass
Informing those of us who live as brutes
That tolerance abounds within your class
And that we don’t possess your virtuous fruits.
But whether you proclaim by sign or flag
Or misbegotten sticker on your car,
We note you fail to notice that you brag;
And make yourself a moral commissar.
Pride is prideful—all arrogance conceit.
Projecting your neurosis has grown old . . .
We laugh at you, not with you. Your deceit,
Ungrasped by you, is easy to behold.
The barren tree you planted in your pride
Informs the world you’ve failed to take God’s side.

Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                                               Spectrum Cable 2

                                                For 23 April 2025


Spectrum Notification Alerts: Welcome. Msg frequence based on account activity.  Text STOP to stop. Msg & data rates may apply.

Spectrum Service Alert: There is a service outage affecting you. Restoration estimated by 11:30 P.M. We apologize for the inconvenience.


It’s got its quirks; it jerks and twerks
And once in a while it sort of works

Is that you / Your eyes slowly fading?

After the stereo (flip that vinyl over)
After the **** hits (burbleburbleburble)
After the subway (next stop Bwahstan Gahden, Bwahstan Gahden)
After bolting down Burger King  (♪ Have it your way... ♫)
        We entered the garden.

Is that you / Your mind full of tears?
Is that you / Searching for a good time?
Is that you / Waiting for all these years?

Santana looked so small way down there on stage from our upper balcony seats, especially Chepito, lit by lurid 70's arena-lights. They seemed disproportionate to the ear-splitting amplification from towering walls of matte-black speakers, amidst  sparklers, firecrackers, with **** wafting over legions of high school students. I can't recall the songs, just the rhythm. When the smoke cleared, ears dazed and ringing, the harsh lights flooded several hundred young persons exiting the garden for the subway.

Is that you / Looking 'cross the ocean
Is that you / Thinking nothing's really there?

J. was still sitting in his seat. Come on. We gotta go.
But my friend J. looked lost, vacant.
Come on J, the trains stop running soon let's go!  
J. did not respond. He leaned forward and vomited on the cement floor between his feet.

Is that you / Waiting for the sunshine?
Is that you / When all you see is glare?

Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                                    Not Waiting for Godot

We pass much of our lives in waiting for things

Airplanes
Love
Christmas
Jobs
Answers
Mail
Spectrum Cable
You

Mostly, though, we wait for packages from Amazon
Maybe this time there will be happiness