R. S. Dunn
died a few days after submitting these poems to Umbrella. He was the editor of Asbestos Poetry Journal and a former editor of both Medicinal Purposes Literary Review and The New Press Literary Quarterly.
He held a BFA in Graphic Design from the School of Visual Arts and an MA in English from Queens College, CUNY.
His books include Zen Yentas in Bondage and Guilty as Charged (Cross-Cultural Communications. Inc.); Playing in Traffic (Founders Hill Press); Sunspot Boulevard (Xlibris), Horse Latitudes, Baffled in Baloneyville and The Sap Songbook (iUniverse); and there is a recently released CD, Sickly Minutes (Diamond Hitch Records).
His public access cable show, Poet to Poet, has run on channels in New York City, Ossining (NY), Bolton (CT), Springfield (IL); he has appeared on radio programs on WBAI-FM, WNYE-FM, and WOR-FM. His comic strip, Knish & Carob, appeared in Street News.
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Pantoum: The Texas Chainsaw Analyst, or,
What in the World Are You Shrinking of?!?
Every weekday, on Channel Three,
The Texas Chainsaw Analyst!
He unravels all our mysteries.
There is no problem he can’t twist.
The Texas Chainsaw Analyst!—
Dispensing clouds of inert gases.
There is no problem he can’t twist
Into the entertainment maelstrom for the masses.
Dispensing clouds of inert gases,
Disrobing psyches for their swim
Into the entertainment maelstrom—for the masses.
He proves no one’s ever right but him.
Disrobing psyches for their swim
With implausible solutions steeped in blather,
He proves no one’s ever right but him.
If you survive, you get Dan Rather.
With implausible solutions, steeped in blather,
He unravels all our mysteries.
If you survive, you get Dan Rather
Every weekday, on Channel Three.
Triolet: Screaming Comedians
Screaming comedians give me the pip.
Gad, they think they’re such a riot,
Yelling, shouting, “shooting from the lip.”
Screaming comedians give me the pip.
I much prefer a subtle quip
Delivered with an air of sneaky quiet.
Screaming comedians give me the pip.
Gad, they think they’re such a riot.
Villanelle: American Amateur Idle Hour
So, last night I bombed out on the Amateur Idle Hour—
Gave it my all, but the judges gave me the boot.
I really should confine my singing to the shower.
They’d sent talent scouts on expense accounts to scour
The country for exploitable talent—the less than astute.
So, last night I bombed out on the Amateur Idle Hour.
Normally, my singing makes even coyotes cower . . .
But previous prize-winners seemed to make that point moot.
I really should confine my singing to the shower.
My talent—for self-deception, that is—came to full flower.
I thought I was cute; they thought “Crazy old coot!”
So. Last night I bombed out on the Amateur Idle Hour.
They also claimed my high note knocked out their transmission tower
When I blanked out on the lyrics and cried “Oh, shoot!”
I really should confine my singing to the shower.
Chalk it up as yet another dream gone sour.
I didn’t even get their consolation prize basket of fruit!
So, last night I bombed out on the Amateur Idle Hour—
I really should confine my singing to the shower.
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