His Highness Namby Pamby, The King of Double Titles,
image by Daniel Y. Harris
6 Double Title
Poems
NAMBY…
Hesitates
to follow a comma into a mute alley
alone—always
keeps a bodyguard at his side.
Frequents
singles bars, hitting on An or And-y
to
protect him from being mugged by declarative
sentences.
A verbal coward, yes—but Heeeere’s
Namby! Too noncommittal
for online dating sites
like
Zoosk or Christian Mingle—Namby has his
own
matchmaker, a wisp of alas, named Hyphen;
who,
knowing he’s too weak even for a wuss like
Bambi—always
hooks him up with his true love
PAMBY…
BULLSHIT…
Wondering
what it is about bulls that led us
to
choose their excrement to build the most
explosive
metaphor in our language? Why
not
rat or snake shit? Is El Toro dishonest?
unreliable? Aren’t such
epithets themselves
Bullshit? If the
criterion’s the size of the turd
wouldn’t
elephant shit be a far better choice?
Not
up for a sniff, but does a bull’s shit smell
worse
than the crap of other beasts, including
our
sapient selves? Worse than 1st runner-up?
HORSESHIT…
MYRIAD…
Le
mot juste
on steroids when you’ve no idea
how
many birds, bats, or butterflies you saw,
but
want it to sound BIG. Pound counted on
our
knowing it meant 10 thousand when he
understated
WWI decimation: There died a
Myriad
(read:
10 million). Now, chosen largely
for
its glorious sound by poets mindless of the
millions
who have perished—heap upon heap.
Even
more poetic—those 5 fragrant syllables
such
troubadours adore. Not a festering lily, a
BOUGAINVILLEA…
TIT…
If
that word’s giving you a hard-on, go away.
There’s
a titmouse at my woodpecker feeder
dining
on dried nuts & cherries. Don’t titter.
There’s
nothing to smirk or leer about here:
just
a shy, tufted bird—ornithologists call a
Tit. That’s its
nickname, stupid. Please go away.
This
is a family poem—not meant for pervs like
you.
Get thee to a strip club or house of ill repute.
This
poem is for ethereal creatures: bird and bat.
Be
off with your vulgar T-shirt—and disgusting
TAT…
STROLLER…
We
all know what a stroller is—right?
You
strap your infant in and you’re off
to
Central Park. But if you’re a literati
you’ll
find Bill Empson’s ass on a park
bench
as he searches for ambiguities in
Stroller. Not likely Bill
will find all Seven.
But
he’ll easily come up with Number Two.
A
“stroller” is what rappers call a “ho.” So:
That
toddler you push in your stroller today
may
cause you sorrow—by being a stroller
TOMORROW…
THEY…
Say
this and that—but who “they” are nobody
knows.
Our feeling towards these soothsayers
is
ambivalent. There’s a touch of skepticism
when
we quote their assertions—though only
an
autodidact completely ignores everything
They say. After all,
they say there’s strength
in
numbers—and theirs is a vast committee
devoted
to self evident truth. So unless they
say
something preposterous, I say go along.
They
say 50,000 whosiewhatsies can’t be
WRONG…
