pound the telephone sharply spinerating – generating – expecting raise roofs of village flashers swiftly fending mentally attiring tremulous trumpeting a sour-sounding mellowing hollowing “carving” miracle mecca with a teaspoon and an ‘e’ coupon. pass the bumper shape the shark fin strumpet bakers lower floors of bundled tenements friskily sending incompetently mending revolving in time shaping destiny like the rivers of mildew in the august of the dusking mountains of equinox.
— zumwalt (1981) (When first discovered in 2011, I did not post this particular item here, but due to increased interest in Zumwalt’s works, adding now. Is it a draft, is it a final version? As always, Zumwalt has declined to comment, gently reminding me that a poem is what the reader makes of it.)
Weighing in at 140 pounds and dwindling, barely five-foot-something, known for their work ethic, is 92% of the American population, some angry, some brainwashed, some apathetic, some simply perplexed: Let’s hear it for the Plebs!!!
Weighing in at — excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, I’ve just been informed that weight is not public information — weighing in at undisclosed, holding 80% of wealth in the stock market, ever increasing in size and influence, are America’s billionaires, hungry for any additional victory they can achieve: Let’s hear it for the Modern Monarchs!
The bell rings!
Before a single Pleb can protest, the Modern Monarchs surgically start to remove sensible regulations protecting the Plebs. The jab lands clean before the Plebs can parry.
The Monarchs taunt, and rapidly shift to Public Policy Tilting, cutting funds for infrastructure, environmental protection, healthcare and education, world health and food programs, dissolving USAID.
What a show from the Monarchs: They duck, pivot, bob and wave with their effective cross-arm defense and their backsteps against fair taxation, leaving the confused Plebs bewildered, exhausted, holding the proverbial bag, sinking to the canvas from its weight.
The Plebs are tough and get to their feet!
The Plebs square off again with the start of a one-two combination, but the Monarchs slip and roll defending with legal leverage, using lawfare to swamp the Plebs, brandishing immunity regulations, delaying accountability, countering and elbow blocking the IRS from pursuing audits, withholding money rightfully owed to the Plebs!
The Plebs are stunned, groggy, wobbling, staggering, but hanging in there dishing out a $5 million penalty for fraud!
The Monarchs pull and counter with identical twins turning that 2022 lawsuit from the Commodity Futures Trading Commission into an apology, and a stunning reversal in favor of this Trump 2024 Campaign donor twosome!
The Monarchs are dominating this contest. Let’s be honest, folks: the Plebs have no chance!
The Monarchs, trained by the most expensive personal trainers, are 4000 times more likely to hold political office than the Plebs, and have the means to influence what they don’t hold, putting these Plebs at an insurmountable disadvantage!
The Monarchs trade in favors: a bill for a check, another seat in their pocket.
The bell rings to end round one.
The Plebs glance at their corner, but there is no stool, no medical attention, all of their allocated funds invested in gold stools for the Modern Monarchs.
The bell for round two rings.
The Plebs valiantly face the Monarchs again!
The Monarchs cuff, clip, smash, throwing haymakers at will!!!
How can the Plebs remain standing?
The Monarchs brazenly pound contributions at Congressmen, Senators, at local representatives: for every cent landed dollars are reaped!
The Plebs attempt to counter with a $47 donation. The swing is wild, but they keep swinging: Monarchs laughing off the few weak punches that land.
The Plebs remind the Monarchs that the Plebs paid for the arena, for the seats, for the ring!
The Monarchs remind the Plebs who paid for the referee!!!
The Plebs continue to sway, left to right, right to left, with no apparent sense of direction.
The ref takes a well-deserved nap.
The Monarchs brandish weapons: inflating slabs of beef, gas pump handles, coffee cans, medical bills, overdue rent, credit reports.
Pugilistically, the Plebs are in a deep deficit, unable to fight back the endless inflation.
The Monarchs land another uppercut and another! An endless flurry of complaints rains down on the Plebs’ credit profiles!
The Plebs are buckling at the knees but still keep to their feet!
A brutal combination from the Monarchs! Stop-work orders straight to the jaw! Supervisory exams — closed! Twenty-two pending actions against the banks — dropped! And a solar plexus punch to finish the round: fifteen hundred regulators dismissed in a single afternoon!
Ladies and Gentlemen, this is absolutely astonishing: The Plebs have lost billions and billions since the match has begun— and yet— are miraculously holding on!
Folks, it’s clear: the Monarchs look to end this match— but— the Plebs refuse to go down for the count.
On cue, the referee comes between the Plebs and the Monarchs, halts the match, holds up two fingers in front of the Plebs— and lands a three-punch combo, followed by a kidney punch, sending the Plebs to the floor!
The count begins.
Half the arena, Plebs themselves, join the count, cheering wildly!
The crowd certainly looks pleased! Their pockets may be empty but this once-in-a-lifetime entertainment allowed them to root for a real winner!
They have officially placed the yeast on hiatus, a term previously reserved for exhausted child stars and caught-on-mic morning show hosts.
Now, it is gracefully applied to a twelve-ounce can that tastes predominantly of 1974 and bowling shoe rentals.
The pivot was, naturally, data-driven: a team of strategists, hydrating from metric-tracked canisters, determined the legacy yield could no longer justify the literal cost of moving heavy water. It is nearly impossible to argue with a spreadsheet that has been industrially brewed for optimal uptake.
So the fermentation tanks are quietly drained, the hops offered a highly competitive severance package. It isn’t an execution, the press release insists, just a strategic realignment.
Perhaps in a decade, it will be exhumed in a slim, matte-finish can and rebranded as a premium heritage artifact for zip codes that treat mechanized exhaustion as a high-end aesthetic.
Until then, we must manage the quiet loss of this reliably unglamorous volume. We will simply have to find another way to anchor our generational thirst in an increasingly incorporated evening of leisure.
Our President, the best ever, holds a hand of infinite possibilities, smiling over six Uno wild cards long after I have gone to sleep.
Our leader, shirtless, in the reflecting pool on a gold inflatable throne with his buddies, but he looks the best: youthful, trim, with a charming smile. He knows how to use AI to glorify! Such a cool communicator!
Maybe he can post an AI photo of a reopened Strait of Hormuz— that should scare the Revolutionary Guard.
Ramesses built a palace with four stone Ramesses, towering sixty-five feet facing the Nile.
Nero built a rotating dining room and a lake where a city used to be.
Kim Jong-il erected himself in each and every airport lobby, every schoolroom wall: watching, always watching, magnificent, thin.
And now we are finally catching up: The 250-foot Donald J. Trump Triumphal Arch, The Donald J. Trump Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, Trump-class battleships, Trump Visas for the wealthy, Trump Coins, Trump Bills, Trump Passports, The Trump Presidential Library, which will be the greatest library anyone has ever seen.
The reflecting pool will be American flag blue, industrial grade. Not granite. Not ugly grey. True Blue!
He posts a picture of his own face beside Mount Rushmore, so even Hakeem Jeffries could understand.
Germany says the Americans have no strategy. But our President holds all the cards. The pool will be blue. He removes troops from Germany teaching Europe, Africa who is really the boss.
Brent crude is $129 a barrel. Just like the stock market, it keeps going up! JD Vance is shirtless. Marco Rubio is shirtless, grinning. They are all in the water. The greatest deal ever. So much better than the worst deal ever— the Obama deal he walked away from with its costly inspectors and wheelbarrows of money carted in.
Some moan and bitch, like my neighbor John, complaining about the price of gas. I wrote a letter to the FCC to kindly ask them to take care of John after they shut up Jimmy Kimmel.
My leader posts himself holding a gun, dominates Mount Rushmore, sits in his gold inflatable chair while the others, all shirtless, all grinning, know best how to tread water.
The pool is six feet deep at the center. The pool will be American flag blue. The administration is in the water. Not underwater. Not sunk. But if they do sink, I’ll gladly follow down deep, deep, and deeper, proudly breathless blue, with water in my ears, mouth and lungs.
I am pleased to announce that Zumwalt has had two poems published in Illinois State University’s literary magazine, Euphemism. Please click on the links below visit their site to read each poem:
Please note that Zumwalt has indicated that the comment at the bottom of the poem was the editor’s wish to clarify that “algos” not only was short for algorithms but also Greek for “pain” so the reader could better understand the poem’s message.
Well, as this site’s administrator, it looks like I didn’t do my job very well. A Zumwalt poem was published back in January of this year and I missed it entirely. Below is the URL embedded in the title. Please visit the site.
Your regalia creaks and groans A panoply of rust and whining joints Moira’s chess game begins And already you’ve been rooked
Charge full-tilt at windmills Or Settle for an electric fan Just keep moving Or God’s heating element Will fry your soul And scorch rationality Maintain that effervescent personality And disco on the Teflon of life
As the sun browns out And your Zippo’s flint disintegrates Grope along the nitred steps And nestle in your excelsior storage crate
Relax and let the Sony vomit Search for a bebop sax (The opiate of the cool) Kicked back, you realize You might just slit your Jugular while shaving tomorrow Fate won’t have you to kick around anymore.
