The Only Political Poems I Will Write At This Time, 1

Admittedly, I am was not born among "millenials,"
but I despise those of my elder, scurillous  generation
who claim, as God-given, the often argued right to speak,
and yet deny it to others with whom they disagree,

and this is done mostly by loud old farts who share my age;

but with whom, in my poems, I will not share their toothless rage.
Even some forty years ago, I thought of their like when
I read Old Possum's great poem that he called, The Hollow Men.
Send these Senescents up a dry, drought-stricken, rural creek
without a paddle, where their long and repetitious groans
are most useful in forming prayers to sun-scorched broken stones.
Their prattle stinks like fresh cow poop in King Augeus' stalls.
Where will you find their like in history's interpretation?
Their spiritual ancestors, though dead, still shout in contention---
false messengers who came to split the Triennial  Convention.



Author's Notes/Comments: 

Some brief notes to the poem . . . Old Possum is a handle given to T. S. Eliot by his sometime friend, Ezra Pound.  (In my opinion, Eliot did more for Pound than Pound ever did for him.)  The prayers to broken stone are an allusion to The Hollow Men.  The question "Where will you find the like in history" was asked, in one form another, in Ezra Pound's so-called epic poem, The Cantos.  The Triennial Convention was split in 1845. 

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