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Nothing truly beautiful is of any use; everything useful is ugly... the most useful place in any house is the toilet.

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—Theophile Gautier

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Parody poetry for the world as it really isn't April 1, 2013 Volume 2, Issue 1

Give a man a fire and he's warm for a day, but set fire to him and he's warm for the rest of his life. – Terry Pratchett

Editor in Chief O Captain My Captain Commander of Design Sergeant E-Pub

The Haikooligan Brian Garrison Sopphey Vance Matthew Guerruckey

Cover Art Paul Solt

The Purist © 1938 by Ogden Nash, First appeared in I'm a Stranger Here Myself First published by Little, Brown & Company Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd. — Interior illustrations from Grosses Bêtes & Petites Bêtes by André Hellé, Public Domain

©2013, Parody Poetry ISSN: 2165-6606 (print) ISSN: 2166-0085 (electronic)

an On Impression publication We delicately extract each specimen from the imagination of the respective author without damaging his/her precommissural fornix nor his/her legal ownership of the piece. Please refrain from circumventing international copyright laws... unless you look really cool doing it, in which case, send pictures! To purchase a copy (or twenty seven), use the order form in back or visit our port on the high-seas of the internet: http://parody.onimpression.com. You are most certainly welcome to mail us your submissions, subscriptions, and miscellaneous trading cards you find lying around: Parody Poetry Journal, P.O. Box 404, East Rochester, NY 14445

Contents The Purist!_______________________ 1 Ogden Nash

The math major's sex life is strenuous! __ 15 Rick Norwood

A Continuation on Nash! _____________ 1 Patrick Cook

The Lunatic!____________________ 16 Leland March

Upon Julia's Nose! _________________ 2 Steve Klepetar

The Girl from Sunken R'lyeh! ________ 17 Robert Dawson

Sonnet to the Dollar Store!____________3 Gregg Sapp

Skinny Dipping! __________________ 18 Tom Murray

Inequity!________________________ 4 Timons Esaias

Professor Lothario!________________ 19 The Rhyme of the Patient Dog Owner! ___ 20 Diane de Anda

The Wit!________________________ 5 James B. Nicola Theodor Adorno Steps Out! ___________ 6 Karen Greenbaum-Maya My Father's Final Letter!____________ 8 Barbara Lydecker Crane Not Terribly Far from Reno!__________ 9 Joseph Reich Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Columbus! ______________________ 10 Matthew Thompson Lines on a Used Book! ______________ 12 Gordon White Advice!_________________________ 13 Laura Garrison Up, Slacker, Up!! _________________ 14 Mark Perry Knitting as Marital Therapy! ________ 15 Kathy Ferrell

The Puppy!______________________21 R.C. Neighbors The Lamb! ______________________ 22 Steve Klepetar Flour and Rice (A Celiac's Hell)! ______ 23 Daniel Schall Ovoidicus! _______________________ 24 Andrew Sacks The Deadly Diet of Danny D. Wyatt! ___ 26 Paul Goldberg A Cream-Puff Deferred! ____________ 27 Richard Krepski A Few Things I Ate!_______________ 28 Faith Shearin

Contributors____________________ 30 Works Parodied_______________ 34

Editor's Note Nobody ever asked me what I'd do if I had a million dollars and didn't have to work. I wasn't big into the idea of what I wanted to be when I grew up. Instead of paving my own path to destiny, I quietly absorbed the messages inflicted upon me from television and books. My life steered a course toward wordsmithery as I watched too many after-school specials (which push the idea that you love your job more when you make less money) and read too many books (which transmit the subconscious message that writing is the best job ever). These were the messages evoked in a young rural-raised child who didn't know any better, who wasn't properly armed to fight back against the will of culture. And now that I am perhaps a little more prepared, I seek out cultural influences that are a bit less pushy. Poetry is (sometimes) a lovely example of unobtrusive culture. There usually isn't room for an author to dump a whole new worldview on you in the way that Jurgis (a la Sinclair) spends the final chapters of The Jungle beating you over the head with the merits of socialism. Instead, the very brevity of poetry forces a collaboration between writer and reader. The message you take away is neither yours nor the poet's, but a fusion of the two. Take this piece: There once was a man from the sticks who liked to compose limericks. But he failed at the sport For he wrote 'em too short The grating dissonance created by stopping short leaves an itch that needs to be scratched. The poet knows this. And the poet knows that he can only scratch words on a page. How you quell the prickling sensation (creeping sideways from the back of your neck, past your elbow, and circling your third pinky joint) is up to you. And who knows, maybe I'm just making all this up—telling stories to make me feel important behind this editorial desk. Though I can't help but wonder what you will take away from the poems in this issue. Mostly Sincerely, The Haikooligan

The Purist [unavailable for electronic release] Ogden Nash

A Continuation on Nash Studying the Indian Ganges life, one day he missed his second wife. He was informed by a wandering Tamil that she had been crushed by a rolling camel. The professor's face grew dimpled and merry. "You mean," he chuckled, "a dromedary." Patrick Cook

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Upon Julia's Nose with apologies to Robert Herrick

When in the spring my Julia goes, Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows That liquefaction of her nose. The poor girl's got such allergies, Her eyes all red and watery. O how her sneezing shaketh me. Steve Klepetar

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Sonnet to the Dollar Store Where vagabond dollars find their place, at last, unbroken, their value decreed, safe from voodoo economics of greed, the gold standard greenbacks earns their grace. These dollars empower modest buyers of stock staples: tools, canned food, white soap, plastic spoons, pins and pens, glue, twine and rope, and grab bags, like fruit on trees, inspires. This humble boutique, its shelves are proud, its mission honest, in service to plain folks, no scam, no hoax, no deceit to provoke the ire of trusting customers unbowed. One item, one dollar, an oath abides Here, a dollar is what a dollar buys. Gregg Sapp

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Inequity "Watch Blind Pedestrians" it says but not in Braille and I watch them without fail but isn't this unfair to those who see? Do the blind, I wonder, Listen protectively for me? Timons Esaias

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The Wit The wit knows he is not a winner. Not, at least, politically. Nor the so-persuasive sinner he might like to be. But he lobs a silky spark to brighten where we couldn't see only to delight the dark temporarily. James B. Nicola

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Theodor Adorno Steps Out He wrote for his Habilitation on Kierkegaard's interiorization. That post-doctoral thesis and its exegesis fell smack on the death of his nation. But Theodor fought the good fight. He stirred up the wrath of the right. When troubles first started, they called him Entartet, and he used his head and took flight. Adorno grew clearer, not rowdier as Europe's horizons grew cloudier. When irrationality swelled nationality his summa to Oxford went laudier. New music? Adorno adored it. Pop culture? My dear, he abhorred it. One hundred eleven ascended to Heaven when Faustus revered and restored it.

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As Theo Adorno grew older, his writing grew brasher, yet colder. He cried, "Sisyphus never had it like this for no one cast doubt on his boulder." Adorno had plans for Berg's Lulu, that opera free of all frou-frou: of lust without passion in serial fashion, he'd conjure the voodoo of woo-woo. In the Heaven that doesn't exist, Adorno is there—with a twist: his infallibility threatens tranquility. But, God, thank God, doesn't insist. Karen Greenbaum-Maya

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My Father's Final Letter with apologies to Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you Are tapping out and damning rotten breaks; If you can hold your nerve when others doubt you And muster guts to double up the stakes; If you can collar buddies with your sinew To back you up when you run out of hay, Or skin some tourist rabbits to continue Roulette or Craps until the break of day; If you can curse—but also be well-spoken To any badge who dumps you out for cheating, And dusting off and finding nothing's broken, Return disguised and give a cordial greeting; If you can make a heap of all your winnings And risk it on a single spin or toss, And losing, play on credit underpinning, And never tell the wife about your loss— If debt upsets you only for a minute, And if you trust in luck's upcoming run, Then you will live a life that knows no limit! P.S. Spare your Dad some cash, my Son? Barbara Lydecker Crane

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Not Terribly Far from Reno i wonder what it was like for moses in his motel room after 40 years of wandering through the desert did he get food delivered figs lox bagels a little palm wine a formosa for moses ice maker under the moonlit heavens with a shower and shave just like clint eastwood after having to watch his back with eyes over his head taking on the whole posse or just totally dehydrated and going for the faucet in the corner and passing out hold my calls.... Joseph Reich

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Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Columbus with a nod to William Wordsworth

Five days have past; five sunrises, with them Five long nights! And again, in stride, I hear The cute rustling of plastic garbage bags, The turning of aluminum cans, moved Through the dirty waters of the river, Brought still by the clash of a rubber tire. Once again do I behold the mountains Of a thousand cigarettes, placed gently Against the banks, where any bird may find His dinner in the ash, or tobacco, He finds lined in the leftover filters. These beauteous forms have not been to me— Forgotten are the pale images of Homeless men, shouting with their signs for food, But mostly, they are hungry for money, Which they might spend to redecorate parks With broken bottles and their paper bags— For it has been too long since I have seen The murky waters of that sweet river. How oft! How oft, in dreams have I returned To you, O humble Olentangy, you Have killed a hundred depressions. Tranquil Has my heart become when I turn to thee. And now I see the picture of the mind, Which, long gone, I thought to be extinguished. Now here I stroll, my soul filled with the thoughts Of freshly cut grass and blooming flowers, Of children running barefoot in their yards, And you, my darling city, allow me To forget these horrid things, and remind Me of a better world: where pavement and Concrete are more plentiful than the air I breathe, the ants on the ground, or the dreams A million terminally ill children Pray to God before drifting to death's sleep.

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Still I am a lover of the meadows And the woods, but instead of trees and ferns I walk in glee through skyscrapers and plants Made of molding newspapers and dead mice. I run among the cars—a herd of deer— Who breathe the fragrant black smoke while they sprint; A blackness that covers all the city, Which hides me from the antagonistic Sun, that murderous ball of Apollo's Hate, light that darkens ev'ry person's skin. Give me clouds and sweet drops of acid rain! Hide the stars and moon for eternity; I only want to see the synthetic Glow of streetlamps and reds of traffic lights. If I should be where no more could I hear The gentle whisper of your gurgling oil, Nor could I see the fallen autumn leaves Covered in candy wrappers just as brown, Wilt thou forget me, too, Olentangy? Forget the numerous days spent list'ning To the homeless puking on the creek side, Or seeing the graffiti as I walk Under the bridges passing over thee? May I never see the day that I could Let the memories flee my aging mind! This place, so dear to my heart and my soul, Shall be with me ever more, for myself, But most importantly, 'tis for thy sake! Matthew Thompson

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Lines on a Used Book The man who sold this book to me said, "The book, it comes as is." Standing before the college library it became my possession, leaving his. Whoever owned this book before me broke its spine and wore it worse as they read this poem repeatedly, leaving pencil lines beneath the verse. But whoever owned it prior to me marked every foolish passage and made notes I don't want friends to see and think them written in my hand; or that they note importance, in this poem, to me, because the chosen parts are worn and trite, including parts I don't want friends to see that I've re-underlined, because they're right. Gordon White

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Advice Don't cry over milk spilled in your half-filled cup of tea. A bird by any other name is worth two in the tree. Feed a silk purse to an old dog, but you'll never make him drink, 'cause the grass always greener in the other kitchen sink. You shouldn't count your chickens in a house made out of glass. Don't stop to smell a rat or look a gift horse in the ass. Each time it rains, it might pour cats and dogs on your parade; so dance like a fish out of water, or you'll be a wet blanket's old maid. Fight frying pans with fire; chase the goose who ate your hat. Never whistle in the belfry; knock your socks right off the bat. You won't find camels threading needles in a stack of hay. Remember, even broken clocks are cleaned two times a day. Laura Garrison

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Up, Slacker, Up! with apologies to Robert Graves

Up, slacker, up! Have you no shame That at the whisper of Love's name, Or Beauty's you no longer raise Your ready head and stand at gaze. Poor bombard-captain, sworn to reach The ravelin and effect a breach— But now indifferent and you don't know why So like a possum you pretend to die! Love may be blind, but Love at least Rejects the unleavened and seeks the yeast: Or Beauty wayward, but requires More staunchness from her favored squires. Tell me, my witless, whose one boast Is that you will not be Cupid's whipping post, When were you made a man who has no part To perform in Aphrodite's art. Will many-gifted Beauty come Begging of you duties just a crumb, Or Love not ask to drain the cup? Arise, arise! Up, slacker, up! Mark Perry

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Knitting as Marital Therapy Needles. Click click click. Knitting occupies both hands. I can't strangle you. Kathy Ferrell

The math major's sex life is strenuous Though his touch with reality's tenuous. All he asks is that sex As a function of x Be unbounded and piecewise continuous. Rick Norwood

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The Lunatic we are all subjects in the lab of love it is as if there is some crazy scientist at work here combining all of the wrong chemicals and watching as the contents in the beakers change colors, bubble, and fizz and look! there's one now watch it as it boils over and explodes, and listen as the room thunders with laughter Leland March

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The Girl from Sunken R'lyeh with apologies to Norman Gimbel and Astrud Gilberto

Andante orribile Tall and green and pentapodal, the girl from Sunken R'lyeh goes walking And when she passes, each one she passes goes AAAAAAH! (in 5/4) When she walks, it's like Take Five performed by Brubeck upon the piano... (instrumental) Oh, but I watch her so sadly As she eats the entrails of the others, Yes, I would give my heart gladly. And today when she crawls from the sea She lurches directly to me. Tall and green and pentapodal, the girl from Sunken R'lyeh goes walking I smile at her eyeless face - but she doesn't see. (She just doesn't see, she never sees me.) Robert Dawson

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Skinny Dipping A crafty old farmer, near the edge of his land, Had a favorite spot for the mischief he planned, With a view of a lake and its sandy white beach Surrounded by orchards of apple and peach. Three lovely young ladies, impelled by the heat, Had stopped by the water to dangle their feet. With no one around to ogle and gape, They peeled off their dresses like skin from a grape. They failed to take notice, that hidden by shade, Was the farmer who watched while they frolicked and played. "What a great day," he chortled with glee, "I'll try to get closer, and see what I see." Seeking to peek at firm breasts and plump tails, He picked up a pair of rusty old pails. The ladies, by now, well aware of the peeper Dove under to hide where the water was deeper, When they rose to the surface in goose pimpled skin, They spotted the farmer who said with a grin, "Don't be alarmed! It's no leering sinner; I'm only bringing the gators their dinner!" Tom Murray

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Professor Lothario Protected by the ivied walls He leered at coeds in the halls And checked out all the students' breasts While he was proctoring their tests. Professor with a Ph.D., He lured young women easily, Though if his status were unknown, No one would choose by looks alone His flabby frame and creviced face, His balding head, his fake embrace. He tricked young women dull and bright, But gave no more than just one night, Then learned how hard an icon falls When jilted girls cut off his balls. Diane de Anda

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The Rhyme of the Patient Dog Owner with a nod to Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Pee pee, pee pee everywhere They lift their legs in sync. Pee pee, pee pee everywhere And how the place does stink. So very deep the spot: O Christ! That ever this should be! Yes, naughty things do lift their legs Upon all that they see. Get out, get out, I scold and rout The spritzing day and night; They water, like a pitcher's spout, As though it were all right. And they in dreams assured were Of their bright streams that plagued us so; Our love so deep we had pardoned them For all acts inapropos. Diane de Anda

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The Puppy with apologies to William Blake

Puppy! Puppy! Whining quite Through the hours of the night, What exhausted mind or eye Can name thy doubtful pedigree? In what distant land or isle Grew the file of thine smile? Where and when did it transpire, These the questions I inquire? And whose action, & whose parts Produced the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What bred hands? & what bred feet? What the sire? What the dame, She whose oven is to blame? Would a vet bill in my grasp Offer answers to be clasped? When thou, pup, wast born with peers And nursed the bitch through whimpered tears, Did it take thee long to flee And then arrive upon my knee? Puppy! Puppy! Whining quite Through the hours of the night, My exhausted mind and eye Can't name thy doubtful pedigree. R.C. Neighbors

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The Lamb with apologies to William Blake

Little Lamb, who made you? Do you know who made you? Broiled you to a golden turn, Watched you so you didn't burn? Broiled your center rosy pink, Chose a good Syrah to drink? Raised a glass to mourn your loss, Then served you with a nice mint sauce? Little Lamb, who made you? Do you know who made you? Little lamb, I'll tell you. She's the partner of my life, She's my lovely, clever wife. Oh, her cookery's a dream! Leg of lamb and spuds with cream Or a fine basmati rice Rich with cumin and allspice. Dinner's ready in a trice And you won't have to call me twice. Leg of lamb is very nice, Yes, leg of lamb is very nice. Steve Klepetar

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Flour and Rice (A Celiac's Hell) with apologies to Robert Frost

Some say the meal will start with flour, Some say with rice. From what I've tasted midst devour I hold with those whose favor flour, For if to me they fed it twice, I think I know enough of grain To say that for digestion rice Is also pain And won't suffice. Daniel Schall

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Ovoidicus An Elegy on the Untimely Death of Humpty Dumpty with apologies to Percy Bysshe Shelley

I weep for poor Ovoidicus—he is dead! Oh! Weep for poor Ovoidicus, though our tears Assemble not the body or the head! And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years To mourn our loss, rouse circular compeers, And teach them thine own sorrow! Say: "With me Died poor Ovoidicus! Till the future dares Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be A lesson and a lamp for all eternity." Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he fell, From his high perch atop the selfsame wall Where he was wont to sit and hear the bell Call Lords and Ladies, horsemen, steeds, and all? With veiléd eyes wert thou asleep to call Of destiny to guard that precious egg; Wert thou oblivious to that hugey ball That toppled without favor of a leg Near soft enough—though strong!—to cushion him, I beg?

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Lament anew, Cholestra! He has died, From whole to separated in one drop; A dozen, dozen pieces of his pride Scattered about in bits from one great pop That, shell-shocked, caused his happy heart to stop, And globoid glory disappear from view, An erstwhile treasure now fit for a mop, Or breakfast chef battalion, all in crew, To add a smorgasbord soufflé to their menu. Alas! That all we loved of him should be, But for our grief, as if it had not been; One deadly fall, and all that’s left to see Are merest bits of beauty that were him; A glowing light forever will be dim. He is made one with Nature. There is heard His voice in all her music, and the sin Of mass destruction and the broken word Are quiet now: Ovoidicus is interred. Andrew Sacks

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The Deadly Diet of Danny D. Wyatt Danny D. Wyatt could not keep to a diet. His stomach just wouldn't be quiet. Feed me! Feed me! that stomach did cry. Poor Danny D., he was forced to comply. Apples pies and cinnamon toast, Eggs and bacon it loved the most. Cakes and soda it loved them, too. Gum drops and licorice it loved to chew. On it went, day after day. The stomach consumed all in its way. Soon Danny's stomach reached the floor. The stomach insisted on eating more. Danny D's stomach filled the whole room. It looked around for more to consume. There was Danny alone for an hour. Guess what his stomach chose to devour? Paul Goldberg

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A Cream-Puff Deferred with apologies to Langston Hughes

What happens to a cream-puff deferred? Does it go to mold Or gestate like a cheese And turn to curd? Do its insides liquefy— And then ooze? Or does it have to learn to sing the blues? Maybe its taste evolves Like hundred-year-old eggs. Or does it sprout legs? Richard Krepski

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A Few Things I Ate There are a few things I'm sorry I ate: a piece of fried chicken in an all night diner that bled when I cut into it, a soup in an elegant French restaurant where I encountered a mysterious ring of plastic. Also: a bowl of spaghetti served with so many long strands of hair I wondered who, in the kitchen, had gone bald. I'm sorry I ate the fast food cookies that tasted like paper the same way I am sorry I let certain men kiss me or hold my hand. I'm especially sorry I ate a certain hot dog on a train that had been twirling for days on a lukewarm display. Forgive me for all that cafeteria food in college: packaged, bland, frozen so long it could not remember flavor. And, hungry in my dorm, I ate bags of stale lies from vending machines, once even a pair of expired Twinkies filled with a terrible chemical cream I am still digesting. After my daughter was born I bought so much organic baby food my husband found the jars everywhere: little glass wishes. One winter I ate exotic fruits from upscale stores so expensive I might have flown instead to a distant tropical island. Then, careless, I ate from containers only my microwave understood. I know what food is supposed to be but often isn't; I know who I might have been if I ate whatever I should have eaten. Remember the time we ate Ethiopian food and spent a week dreaming so vividly our real life grew pale? Or the day we ate so much spice in our Thai food that our mouths were softer? I'm not sorry I ate all those ice cream sandwiches from my grandmother's freezer and drank those Pepsis with her on the way to Kmart to buy more pink, plastic toys. She liked the way sugar made me lively and, anyway, she was suggesting the possibility of pleasure.

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She made a vegetable soup that simmered all day on the stove: growing deeper, more convincing, and a carrot cake with cream cheese icing that floated on my tongue like love. Now I am middle aged I am fat and eating salads or, before bed, talking myself into rice cakes that taste like despair. My father is diabetic and must have everything whole wheat and lean and my sister can't have any salt. I'm sorry I ate all that cereal when we first got married, by myself in the kitchen, the milk pale and worried. Remember how I covered my fruit with cheese and mayonnaise? I'm not sorry, whatever you might say. Then there were the lunches we ate on the beach, watching the seals sun themselves: thick chicken sandwiches wrapped in a foil so silver they must have been valuable. Faith Shearin

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Contributors Patrick Cook lives with his wife, Valorie. They are both retired postal workers who live in Grand Rapids, Michigan, which is listed as the 33rd cloudiest city in the United States. This figure is highly suspicious. They believe there is a conspiracy among statisticians to underrate their city, fueled by bribery and corruption on a national scale. They demand an investigation. A former quilt artist, Barbara Lydecker Crane of Somerville, MA created fabric landscapes now in private, public, and museum collections. In 2011 she won the Helen Schaible Sonnet Contest, and in 2012 she published a chapbook of humorous poetry (including several parodies) entitled Zero Gravitas (White Violet Press). As a quiltmaker, her income was pretty paltry. As a poet it's positively puny. Fortunately her husband is gainfully employed. Robert Dawson is the transparent pseudonym of the mathematician Robert Dawson. His work has appeared in periodicals such as The Resurrectionist, Open Heart Forgery, and the Mathematical Proceedings of the Cambridge Philosophical Society (where they didn't get the limerick about the young girl from Alaska at all). His coolest paper is probably the one in the Journal of Statistical Education that borrows one of Randall Munroe's XKCD cartoons to explain about exploratory data analysis. Diane de Anda is a third generation Latina and retired UCLA professor with expertise in teen pregnancy, STD, and violence prevention. No longer grinding out academic papers, she writes short stories, satires, parodies, children's books, and poetry. She has short stories in Rosebud and Pacific Review, poetry in Light, 7 published children's books, and hopes to make time to learn how to play her collection of 24 drums. Timons Esaias is a satirist, poet and writer of short fiction, living in Pittsburgh, and teaching at Seton Hill University. His work has appeared in fifteen languages. His News Nots satire column appeared in seven newspapers, and convinced many readers that the Vatican was relocating to St. Louis and that the Pittsburgh Sewer & Water Authority had decided to add Prozac to the water supply (along with sodium pentothal at tax time). He tends to go on and on about stuff. Kathy Ferrell writes and makes art from the confines of the free range asylum known as West Virginia. Dissenting against the current Appalachian pastime of seeing how much mud one can get on one's teeth in a 24 hour period, she instead advocates a return to the more staid cultural practices of her ancestors; sin eating, widow pickin', snake handling, and xenophobia. She maintains a blog that is not consistently stupid, and in this economy, that's saying somethin' cuposwank.wordpress.com

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Laura Garrison lives in a small apartment with her husband and an evil gnome. She has never actually seen the gnome, but she knows it's there because something keeps hiding her shoes in weird places and stealing all the good jellybeans out of the candy dish. She studies American literature but secretly dreams of becoming a wrecking-ball operator. She likes turtles, carnivals, and blueberry pancakes. Paul Goldberg lives in Baltimore and belongs to a wife, 3 children, and 2 dogs. He writes children's poetry inbetween making a living. Paul is a graduate of the University of Florida and holds a masters degree from Hebrew University in Jerusalem. [email protected] Karen Greenbaum-Maya is a closet German Lit major and a retired clinical psychologist, and not a moment too soon. She likes ducks, also duck, a conflict leading to her tragic view of life. She has a history with sheep. She can recite the value of pi to twenty places, but who cares? She may or may not outweigh all the Stones rolled together. She believes that if you want to hit someone with a fish, you should just hit them with a fish. She takes life very very very seriously. cloudslikemountains.blogspot.com/ Steve Klepetar is widely known as the most famous Shanghai-born, JewishAmerican poet in the entire Central Minnesota area (and he has made inroads in North Dakota, Northern Wisconsin and the Upper Peninsula of Michigan). Richard Krepski resides in the twilight zone between scientific rationalism and poetic lunacy. He is retired from a career as research scientist and educator. Information on his book Alchemical Gold (a conglomeration of poetry, cosmological speculation, and religious philosophy) can be found at substanceto-spirit.com. His poems have appeared in Mobius, Tiferet, Jesus Radicals, and Bolts of Silk. He won the Tiferet writing award in 2009 for his essay "Center of the Universe." Leland March is a college sophomore and—in his spare time—a poet, guitarist, banjo picker, and piano player. He grew up in a small town where the highlight of the school year was Chicken Nugget Day. The students would convince their teachers to leave class early to get a hold of those crisp little beauties. Believe it or not, he has also starred in a short, and inconsistent film (his acting is not on par with his writing or music). He also plays the musical saw. It never fails to amuse. Tom Murray is a retired computer geek living in Princeton, NJ (in relative tranquility) with his wife and two man-eating miniature dachshunds. He finds that life in a college town is highly conducive to writing poetry while pursuing his advanced studies in Applied Curmudgeonry. Look for his soon-to-bepublished book Passive Aggression for Fun and Profit. Ogden Nash (1902 - 1971) is a poet posthumorous.

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As a young cowboy, R.C. Neighbors fell in love with a farm girl in Oklahoma. He won her hand and her heart by bidding on her basket at auction, and they left for their honeymoon in a surrey with the fringe on top, somehow ending up in the strange land of Texas. It's hot there, like pits of hell hot. The people name things after George Bush. And the state doesn't even have a Broadway musical named after it. Soon, R.C. hopes to gain his Ph.D. and leave to parts unknown. Maybe somewhere with winter. James B. Nicola has had over 300 poems published in sundry periodicals (including this one, where he was nominated for a Pushcart Prize). A Yale grad and stage director by profession, his book Playing the Audience won a Choice Award. As a poet, he also won the Dana Literary Award and a People's Choice award (from Storyteller), was nominated for a Rhysling Award, and was featured poet at New Formalist. His children's musical Chimes: A Christmas Vaudeville premiered in Fairbanks, Alaska—with Santa Claus in attendance opening night. Rick Norwood flunked out of M.I.T. and currently edits a comic book. www.comicsrevue.com www.doubletorusknots.com Mark Perry and his twin brother spent their formative years at the Georgia State Prison in Reidsville, Georgia, where their father worked and where their family lived inside the guard line. They planned their escape well. Mark's encounters with prisoners prepared him for a career as a criminal lawyer. His brother's study of criminal behavior prepared him for a career as a political science professor who specializes in that subcategory of criminals known as politicians. One thing that Mark finds comforting about growing up at the state prison is that if he gets into serious trouble, he can go home again. Joseph Reich is still trying to prove he exists and still hasn't and finds as each day dwindles by, rougher and rougher. His books range from poetry to philosophy to cultural studies and as such: A Different Sort Of Distance (Skive Magazine), If I Told You To Jump Off The Brooklyn Bridge(Flutter), Pain Diary: Working Methadone & The Life & Times Of The Man Sawed In Half(Brick Road Poetry), Drugstore Sushi(Thunderclap), The Derivation Of Cowboys & Indians (Fomite), The Housing Market: a comfortable place to jump off the end of the world (Fomite), All My Born Days: the spirit of home movies(Writing Knights), The Hole That Runs Through Utopia(Popcorn). Andrew Sacks lives in the greater L.A. area, in Fontana. He wears many hats (occasionally at the same time): English professor at two local community colleges and a private university; Rated chess Master; Freelance writer with published works both on the game of chess and various other subjects, primarily at www.chessdryad.com and www.angiesdiary.com; Humorist who is now concentrating on parodies of well-known poems, poets, and poetic styles.

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The biggest joke in Gregg Sapp's literary career is that he wrote 60 academic articles and four learnéd monographs, not a word of which (he is convinced) was ever read by anybody. As a 50th birthday present to himself, he wrote a novel: Dollarapalooza, published in 2011 by Switchgrass Books and soon to be found in bins at better dollar stores. Since then, he's published in Zodiac Review, Midwestern Gothic and Marathon Review. Whether anybody reads this stuff remains an open question. Daniel Schall is a poet and teacher from Philadelphia, the City of Loverly Broth. He enjoys reading poems from drunk people and researching Bigfoot footage online. He is obsessed with pizza flavored Goldfish crackers, semiotics, breaking the rule of three, and promoting Obsession Literary Magazine (www.obsessionlitmag.com). He has a short attention span and...hang on, I have to take this. Faith Shearin is the author of three books of poetry: The Owl Question (May Swenson Award), The Empty House (Word Press), and Moving the Piano (SFA University Press). Recent work has appeared in Poetry East and The Southern Review and has been read aloud by Garrison Keillor on The Writer's Almanac. She is the recipient of awards from The Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, The Barbara Deming Memorial Fund, and the National Endowment for the Arts. Her work also appears in The Autumn House Anthology of Contemporary Poets and Good Poems, American Places. She lives with her husband, her daughter, and a small, opinionated dachshund, in a cabin on top of a mountain in West Virginia. Matthew Thompson recently graduated from Otterbein University, where he got a degree in English. Suggestions on how to productively use such a degree should be sent to [email protected]. Gordon White lives in New York and is a connoisseur of good beer, terrible haircuts, and tasteful plaids. Although his poetry has appeared around the Web, the last time he read an actual printed journal was at his mother's house over the holidays. She also doesn't know how to use her iPhone and she still gets her internet from AOL. She hasn't seen The Wire, either. Get a clue, Mom! Anyway, to visit him in a world without limits (well, character limits), check out www.grizzlyspectacles.com. — Paul Solt is an iPhone/iPad developer and instructor. He runs a software studio making art and photo apps for iPhone and Mac computers. Paul enjoys running in Luna Sandals, standing desks, and playing ultimate (that game where people throw around a disc, not a Frisbee™). When he's not coding he's probably recording videos or writing articles for his new blog on iPhone development. http://iPhoneDev.tv/blog/

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Works Parodied Upon Julia's Clothes !

by Robert Herrick........................................................................... 2

If !

by Rudyard Kipling......................................................................... 8

Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey... !

by William Wordsworth................................................................ 10

Down, Wanton, Down! !

by Robert Graves................................................................................. 14

The Girl from Ipanema !

first translated into English by Norman Gimbel and thusly performed by Astrud Gilberto......................................... 17

The Tyger !

by William Blake......................................................................... 21

The Lamb !

by William Blake......................................................................... 22

Fire and Ice !

by Robert Frost..............................................................................23

Adonais !

by Percy Bysshe Shelley................................................................. 24

Harlem (Dream Deferred) !

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by Langston Hughes..................................................................... 27

Parody

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