Defused Lethal Al Gore Poem Released by Government

Vapors rise as

[Picking up the pace our poet transports his reader, for one brief and pungent moment, into the most private, intimate and smallest room in his house. In such a setting the deepest odors of Mr. Gore's poetic gifts waft upward and subsume the unwary reader, inducing in him a trance like state ... ]

Fever settles on an acid sea

[ ... in which the effects of the previous night's vast consumption of various endangered species at Chez Gore are spewed forth into an ocean of Zantacs and Pepto-Bismol on the waves of a refreshing high colonic that engulfs the reader in high poetic fancy previously known only to Dante.]

Snow glides from the mountain

[Here we begin to discern the sense of infinite loss that overwhelms a billionaire bard who discovers that the Black Diamond route behind his Aspen mansion no longer holds the deep powder.]

Ice fathers floods for a season

[This is a line resplendent in its simple complexity. It could be a warning "written on the subway walls," one that says, mayhap, "cannonballs." It could be the poet reflecting on the state of his wife's flickering affections as some of Tiger Woods' schedule opens up. It could be a humble observation that prostate afflictions are not easily overcome. The uncertain richness of this strain of ambiguity stuns one into mute vacillation.]

A hard rain comes quickly

[Not content with pillaging the minor poets Donovan and Milton, Gore boldly rapes the early work of the great Bob Dylan's "Hard Rain's Gonna Fall" by his deft enjambment of that poem's signature refrain with his personal erectile difficulties. An intimate if perhaps ill-considered disclosure that draws the awed reader deeper in to Gore’s shallows.]

Then dirt is parched

[This stunning image sketches like a rainbow in curved air what perhaps happens to mud when moisture is removed, presumably by too much hot air, and returns to the poem entire to a firm foundation in the natural world of Gore that is “Gaia all too Gaia.”]

Kindling is placed in the forest

[Scholars have noted this echo of "coals to Newcastle," but more practical readers have observed: "Kindling is pretty much what is found naturally on the forest floor and there's no need to bring it."]

For the lightning's celebration

[We are approaching the bitter end of this sweet song hymn to the earth with this evocative calling up of the lightning from far heaven on the oft yearned for Walpurgisnacht of the gods. One can almost hear Odin's anvil sing out its warning. If only the progressives had heeded it, but then if Nancy Pelosi had only shared half her Botox with Hillary Clinton both may have survived exposure to the poem.]

The shepherd cries

[If you thought that shepherds were made of sterner stuff, you weren't paying attention in The Silence of the Lambs, were you?]

The hour of choosing has arrived

[Indeed it has and would that many of our dear departed progressive brethren had heeded this warning and stopped reading at this point.]

Here are your tools

[Noose, gun, high ledge at the CBS and New York Times skyscrapers, sleeping pills, cyanide Kool-Aid, self-immolation. All those tools and more were used. And each act was accompanied with the same note: "Al is right. My "hour of choosing" has arrived. I just can't go on inflicting my carbon footprint on the world any longer. I love you, Gaia. Goodbye forever."]

In terms of reducing the carbon load on the planet as well as purifying the air of American Progressive out-gassing, all can agree that this poem was not only Al Gore's masterpiece but also his most fitting memorial.

Rumors that Gore is still hiding out in Copenhagen disguised as a blonde Danish prostitute are probably untrue, but since the poem was widely distributed to the disastrous "Copenhagen Conference" the bodies are still too thick around the periphery of that city to permit entry. President-Select Palin has promised "a full and complete search of the rubble for the remains of Gore as soon as it is deemed safe for our troops."