He expects a bow, a curtsy,
A genuflection indicating a
Profound respect for his station.
Any affront to his sovereignty is
Answered with exaggerated rancor,
Swift punishment meted.
A scepter compensates for a
Weak mind and cavernous,
Petty appetite for power.
There’s a particular
Kind of low-grade
Headache that insinuates
Itself whenever I have
To do anything remotely
Related to math or
Have to watch or listen
To something that I
Find excruciatingly
Boring. It’s not awful
Enough to scream but
It is annoying, draining,
Sort of like when I
Have to spend time
With certain people and
Pretend I’m enjoying it.
Let me tell you
Something about
The world: It’s a
Cold, dark, savage
Place where the only
Way to survive is to
Kill or be killed.
Forget all this
Touchy-feely stuff
About diversity or
Diplomacy, the only
Thing people understand
Is a harsh slap
Across the face.
My bomb is bigger
Than yours, that’s all
That matters, your
Ideas about peace and
Collaboration are
Only naive
Pipe dreams.
In letters to his friends,
As an aside on the golf course,
He voices his disdain for
The leeches, the ones who
Can’t make it because they
Don’t have the initiative
He does, the ones who
Sponge off of others and
Live a life of taking,
The ones he never has to
See as the gates to his
Compound close behind him,
They aren’t as special as him,
He keeps telling himself,
And anyone who will listen.
He woke up, like every other
Morning, and watched the
Early news while drinking
Instant coffee and eating the usual
Microwave breakfast sandwich,
Muttering to himself that
People should be satisfied with
What they’ve got and quit
Complaining about their
Situations. At least they’ve
Got jobs, they’re better off
Than where they came from.
Nobody ever handed me anything.
Life is hard, there’s no free rides.
The sun ascends above the
Horizon, its rays never
Disinfecting the ingrained
Scarcity of imagination.
It’s reported that
The whole race thing
Is really not much of
A concern, bordering on
An afterthought for many,
Easily dismissed,
Of no real consequence,
A very different view
From having epithets
Shouted at you or being
A permanent suspect,
Second-class something,
Berated, harassed,
Handcuffed, maced,
Clubbed, shot for
Being exactly as
You were born.
They chopped down the
Beautiful tree that
Graced their yard.
Not because it was sick,
Or encroaching on something,
But because they could.
Startled and enraged
By the light of progress,
They scurry out from
Their hiding places to
Shriek for their right
To hate, impose their
Distorted dreams of
Inequality and fear.
Artifacts from a
Shameful past,
Idealizing the
Trespasses of their
Forebears, standing up
For malevolence,
A ghastly stain,
Total absence of
Compassion, love.
He makes an offhand
Remark about someone’s race,
Not giving it much thought
And well in keeping with
The rest of his consistently
Intolerant outlook on many
Things, punctuated by a
Self-serving qualification
About how he accepts all people,
And how he’s so moderate,
Civilized, enlightened,
Completely unaware that
The only difference between
Him and the monsters
Is a matter of degree.
