his lightbulb flashed E equals m

times c squared, accounting for

the extra energy created when neutrons

begin to multiply like radioactive rabbits

during an angry nuclear excursion.

But, sacre bleu, m stands not for mass

but for money, c for collusion, not

collision, to Albert’s embarrassment.

George Gamow also badly missed

the target when he envisioned his lewd

Big Bang Theory, aka the Beginning

of the Universe and related destinations.

What he didn’t understand was that

it was Mom and Dad who mothered and

fathered Big Bang, creating G.G. himself.

Leonardo da Vinci was so befuddled by

scientific nightmares that he painted

his most lasting enigma, the curious

smile on the placid face of Mona Lisa,

a peripatetic prostitute and soothsayer.

Mona of smiling face soothsaw that she

and Leo would get serious, freezing for-

ever that smile so beloved by multitudes

of adoring Japanese tourists to the Louvre.

My own theory, in all humbleness, is that

Albert and George and Leonardo would

have made strange bedfellows in today’s

world, their gifts to science ignored by

modern Super-Thinkers – Leonardo di

Caprio, George W. Bush and Albert

Capone, all fiduciaries of the Big Bang.

(Published on 6/21/10 online by Marquis Cafeteria Round Table)

Note:  Just a piece of fluff, the “science” of the piece garbled on purpose.  Long ago, I did attend a lecture by Mr. Big Bang himself, George Gamow, at George Washington University.  It was curious to see how a genius operates:  though brilliant, Mr. G. smoked while onstage (a no-no), didn’t know how to tie his shoes and had to have assistance to blow up a balloon.  I ran into many folks like him – and thank goodness for them! – while a consultant at the infamous Los Alamos Laboratories in New Mexico.

Maxie couldn’t have been happier

than he was the day our sister got married.

I picked him up at the hospital

as I usually did most Saturday mornings,

then headed directly for my apartment

where his new outfit awaited him:

brown wool suit, white shirt, rakish red

tie and matching pocket hanky,

sleek brown loafers with tassels –

even new socks and underwear.

He looked spectacular when finished,

even more handsome than sister Eileen’s

husband-to-be, who was plagued

by the jitters, as was fretful Eileen,

whose chief concern was Maxie.

I made sure Maxie swallowed two

Ritalin tablets, then my wife gave him

a final once over before we left

for the groom’s parents’ church.

Maxie circulated with snacks at the reception,

danced with every willing female,

and charmed everyone who noticed him –

many didn’t, because he fit right in,

regardless of the demons he suppressed.

His smiling mug showed up in many

of the wedding pictures, testaments

to his having enjoyed a wonderful day.

I picked him up again a week later,

expecting him to be wearing his new duds

but found him instead deep in thought

in his usual uniform, scruffy cottons.

Maxie said one of the other patients

had a sister who was getting married,

so he’d given away the suit and accessories.

I silently cursed his misguided generosity, but

finally gave it up when I saw how

genuinely pleased with himself he seemed.

Note:  Golly, Miss Molly, another too-true story.  Maxie, movie-star handsome, came down with the too frequent affliction of young men in those days, paranoid schizophrenia.  After nearly ten years in a mental hospital, the infamous St. Elizabeth’s in Washington, D.C., he began coming out of his long funk of  non-communication after starting on what would later become known as the miracle drug Ritalin.  Returning home most weekends, he came back to family but was, of course, never quite the same.  This incident of dear sister Eileen’s wedding had to be one of the highlights of his tormented life – a day of great merriment for him and for us, his family.  Alas, his dosage of Ritalin was said to be a hundred times what today is normally prescribed for patients and, after too few years, killed him.  We had him back for too short a while.  Good to remember a happy day, Eileen and Dave having recently celebrated fifty years of married life together.

(Published in Into the Teeth of the Wind, Vol. II, Issue 2-3, 2001)

is a neurologist almost my age.

She gazes deep into my eyes,

lo0king for trouble, I guess, though

I haven’t yet told her why I’m here.

It’s this ringing in my ears, I say.

I wonder if I have a tumor in there

somewhere that’s causing it -

at first one violin, now a whole

symphony orchestra full, all 0ff-key.

She still wonders if perhaps I’m sliding

into Alzheimer’s, the basis of her practice,

and asks me to remember the words,

Boy.  Apple.  Twenty-seven.  B-A-T.

So, I commit them to memory.  Done.

Half an hour later, when she returns,

I repeat, Boy.  Apple.  Twenty-seven.

She smiles, completes her exam, and

schedules me for an MRI in a week.

I walk out mumbling:  Boy, apple, twenty-seven.

The MRI goes without a hitch, though

with more than a little bit of discomfort.

And noisy.  All through it, I repeat those

three words:  Boy, apple, twenty-seven,

over and over and over again.

I literally run into Dr. Marilyn several weeks

later in Whole Foods in the produce section.

I smile and say, Boy, apple, twenty-seven.

She tries to smile, searches deep in my eyes,

and says, I don’t recall that we’ve met.

(Published online in the May 2008 issue of Word Riot)

Note:  True story-poem.  I’ve had this ringing (tinnitus) in my ears for nearly fifteen years, thought it was time to see if there may be an obstruction or growth inside somewhere that caused it.  Dr. Marilyn preferred to see if I were going down the rabbit hole into Alzheimer’s.  There was no tumor or growth or evidence of Alzheimer’s, except when I had that chance meeting with her in Whole Foods.  That was the day this old boy decided to buy apples, twenty-seven of them.

I went to a country-western joint to meet girls and dance.

Most of the girls were women, with men.

They danced with me anyway.

Until the joint closed.

Parameters of Experimentation

I figured, go for broke – hold nothing back.

Each dance turned out to be a two-step.

Once I tried jitterbugging, to no avail.

Two-stepping is better in cowboy boots, not sneakers.

List Results

A scientist seemed welcome in this environment.

I danced with a new gal each number.

The guys looked relieved, consumed lots of beer.

2:00 A.M. closing came mighty early.

Conclusions

Country-western joints are accessible for socialization.

Though strenuous, dancing is aerobic exercise.

I would certainly consider repeating the experiment.

After recovery from the skull fracture.

(Published online in the April 2009 issue of Thick With Conviction and nominated for online poem of the year)

Note:  This was just a fun exercise to somehow apply my scientific background into an arena with which I’m only vaguely familiar, country-western music and dancing.  I grew up with country music in the Delmarva area surrounding D.C., heard many country stars on the way up, and am getting back to these “roots” again late in life.  Country-western makes me want to dance but, alas, I don’t own cowboy boots.  Still, I’m an aficionado of dance, all kinds, from two-stepping, ballet, modern (a la Pilobolus and so many others), ballroom, backroom, even dancing with the stars (as long as they’re overhead, not those out-of-work faded stars on TV).