Oblique in an Acute New Century
by Gary Hardaway
No New Pictures, Please
My photogenics went to hell
in 1999. The cameras
ever since have pictured me
with too much resolution and fidelity.
My old face couldn't face
the new age with cheerful acquiescence.
It is a small life, circumscribed
by debt and income, age and infirmity.
The Hidden Hand thrusts its middle finger
high. Fortuna spins her wheel and cackles.
His Allergies Are Bad Today
Variety, spice, life—
ingredients of a vast despair
Fatigue already lowers the amplitude
of the five cleavers circling between
myself and the audience of bored strangers.
They remain, in hope of a little spatter
when entropy predominates
and the whole little enterprise ends
with accelerating disorder
The places I can be and want to be
diminish. Chairs no longer fit.
The morning slash of sun
burns the retinae. Faint
and unfamiliar noises portend
calamity. It may be time to leave.