Pot-shots- an Octet for the New Year
by Gary Hardaway
On Rugged Individualism
We are but data points
in a murmuration
of buying trends.
I love the pinpoint proximities
of English. The spirit
of an Anglo-Saxon fist
to the face of the Romans
and Normans bubbles through.
The Elitist Speaks
I don't speak body language.
It's a dumbfuck alphabet anyway.
The dead have no body language
but speak more clearly in print
in alphabets that live longer
than the still warm and blooded
assholes demanding attention
in the customer service lines
the day after Christmas.
Fuck your body language
anyway, inarticulate syllables
farted by suspect protoplasm.
Officer in Charge
or Opioid Induced Constipation-
Trump for President?
He's not substantial enough
to be a bag of shit. He is
a bag of farts- a tenuous
and foul gas
that fills a small balloon
drifting as it will
with the vagaries of wind.
Maybe all quarterbacks are shitwads.
Brady was once among my favorites.
Now, I hope he ends his life
a quadriplegic bit of asparagus.
Trump for president?
You fucking arrogant simpleton.
Die, a sad little fucked-up stick figure,
you neo-fascist asshole.
Maybe Bridget Moynahan would agree.
Maybe not. Someone ought to ask her.
The hawks and owls divide the day and make
their wary predators' peace of dark and light.
The world divides itself among
less honorable raptors- bank and bank,
manufacturer and manufacturer,
nation and equally ruthless nation.
We stitch a shifting but familiar quilt
of seemly, desperate alliances.
There is profit to be made
by breaking the bodies of the young.
The NCAA knows this. The NFL
and NBA know this. The pimp
corralling runaways and illegal aliens
knows this. By breaking
bodies of the young, Northrop,
Boeing, and Raytheon maintain
their skyboxes and stock values
budget year after budget year.
The rich don't need to eat
their young. They eat yours.