It stupefies, it sickens, it infuriates.
(Philip Roth on American life in the 1960s)

I fear I’ve morphed into a carping nag.
Crafting invective merely fêtes the boor,
vomitous bilge the thing that feeds his root.
It’s to priss froufrou-like at the gala
of distress, chorusing the common clamor.
Best to forego the dubious allure
of thrusting pelvises bucking the wind.

Weather in those leafing trees wants watching,
cut grass teeming with all manner of ant.
Sage purples beyond all conceiving,
sinking its teeth into a fractious drought.
Hindsight chivvied into prophesying
is a many-splendored sugar of heathens,
whereas this fight to the death of blooming
is a sight to behold, bow to, salute.

(c) 2026 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved