Poetry News

Ardith Brown
3 min read
The Monday Poem: Howl 2018
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I saw the worst men of my generation waving their small limp dicks at the flag

high on money and war, the logic and bitter drivel of their solipsist words.

Bury yourself in chenille throws and wool blankets children, it’s time to hide.

Drag yourself through asphalt rush hour panoply of cars not listening to NPR.

In Baltimore, ODs and homicide erupt. In Washington, Senators masturbate.

I miss my old Underwood. It sits in a Colorado cabin and mice live there now.

I could stab and whack and tap tap tap the plutocrat’s names in jazzy red ink.

Stretch that ribbon! Strike the keys, bash the return bar into place, ring the bell!

The Cold War’s simplistic tropes no match for demon-memes of demagogues.

Social media, I implore you to shut up. Let the baby twitter himself in a tizzy

but please be quiet. Nihilism and doubt are no mystery in the catacombs and tombs.

Opioid crisis, obesity epidemic, nationalists on home plate: deliver us from sin .

Christ, you would not do well in the information age to earnestly tell the pumped crowds

“My name is Jesus, and I’m an addict.” Don’t do it! You’ll wind up frightened and dead..

Which already happened, but Big Pharma couldn’t help out with free samples of Oxycontin.

And you’d be justified to deny the mystics as you nod contemplatively stoned into peace.

Wasn’t Judas framed? That kiss historically inaccurate but more delicate than a kitten skull.

Shattered, he’d insist the fragments wrap together like DNA cords a spinal tap. No holes.

Modern mayors strive to remove monuments at night and avert the Nazi punks from coming

to town like a massacre. Freddie Gray and the apocalypse are not forgotten–murals don’t lie.

Democrats can flock to the polls. Teachers can deliver science under threat of assessed doom.

But my money’s on the madmen. Delighted with their unquestionable power, they slurp

Kool-aid with their caviar until their swollen pacifier lips are satiated with sugar and salt.

They’ve been sucking themselves dry so long they forget to open up and swallow the seed.

Really, it’s Shakespearean of us to even hope for poetic justice. All the sonnets shut down.

Desdemona, did you mutter sarcastically on your deathbed while your kind maid listened?

Knowing soon your sweet husband will darken and extinguish you, having not loved wisely?

Too well Emilia understands the danger of a double face. .And who doesn’t adore a fascist?

Every woman, of course. Grass root messiah-bird, who will save us now? Your lovely wings

are covered with oil. The homelands desecrated with congressional slime, oozing black sludge.

Dove of renewal I beg you return. Grace me with pearlescent feathers and your long, soft call.

Assassins are upon us and we wait, phone in hand, for the second coming, too gone to care.
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