Cultural Revolutions

Darwin Is Wrong

Regarding the inaugural "poem" . . . Joan Rivers. Atrium. A poet manqué without a poem. Or even a coherent thought. But sexually, racially, politically correct. Living proof Darwin is wrong. The fittest have not survived. Once mute. Now, unfortunately, speaking. Mind-numbing gibberish that would make Ferlinghetti puke. She a species that has not, alas, departed. A liberal dinosaur, a dry token.

This day crying out. But about what? To whom? And nothing rhymes. Privileged beyond her wildest imaginings. Widely hailed by other frauds. Other shadows with no place to hide. Human Oaklands with no there there. Black. A brooding darkness. Created a little lower than your average men's room graffiti. No destiny other than to bore to tears. Angels shrieking and running for cover. She rushing in where they fear to tread. Her mouth spilling words in no particular order. Bald-faced ignorance. Cant cubed.

The Rocks, too, cry out—in pain. I know how they feel. Mindless meanderings. Beamed around the world. Only God knows what those in Papua New Guinea think. Somewhere, Robert Frost weeps. Each of us wondering: Huh? Afraid to say this. Mayans everywhere considering a class-action suit; Angelous contemplating a name change. Each of us a bordered country, an island. All of us inhibited by our intelligence. Unable to dig it. Grieved because we have a will to meaning. Pondering puzzling phrases....

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