Used-to-be's don't count anymore
they just lay on the floor
till you sweep them away


Amy Bessone, Portrait, 2011–12,

Three by Klipschutz:

Tom Cruise Proposes to Katie Holmes
at the Eiffel Tower

This is no publicity stunt, Jack,
they’ve been up all night celebrating.

Or some kind of Scientology-brokered deal, Shaquille,
they’re walking on air in the City of Love.

It’s no promo to remind us he’s no homo, Schlomo—
how many aisles must a man walk down?

She grew up with a poster of him, Jim,
on her bedroom wall and look, look at them now,

conducting press conferences together, Heather,
denying, mooning, sighing, making eyes.

That’s a massive diamond ring on her finger, Ringo,
it sparkles and it shines like the sun.

“I wish them the happiest marriage anyone has ever had,” Chad,
said Dakota Fanning, the child actress who co-stars

in War of the Worlds along with Tom, Yusuf Islam,
and sat next to Holmes at the news conference,

repeats the toothsome live announcer, Counselor,
broadcasting the good news to a world at war.


Settled Scores

I like to think of Madonna throwing a fit once she realizes someone is talking about the Mother of God instead of her. Objects get thrown, historic artifacts; staff is cashiered, get out, get out, get out. And when it sinks in even further that after she’s gone, the Mother of the Son of God will still be here, in people’s thoughts, and the name they will be saying may be hers but they won’t be aware of her at all, they’ll be appealing to the Mother of their Lord, not the power parent of Lourdes, Rocco and David – when she faces this, her rage will know no bounds. She’ll pick up the phone and demand that her daughter get a full scholarship to the Sorbonne. And make another call to see how much it would cost to buy the Sistine Chapel. One more, to place a bid on the Sorbonne. This will not end well for the Mother of God or the Sorbonne. It ends for me, though, when my daydream cuts to commerical. I piss away my time like so, setting this and that from wrong to right.

And now, for Bono. . .


The Gavel

I’m fond of my brother-in-law John, but feel compelled to reiterate (and not just because I love the word), again, semi-publicly this time – even as I thank Daniela and John in advance for hosting us in style over Independence Day – that David Sedaris, whatever he is, is not a great American writer.