You’re clearly, clearly not a poet, Frank;
More a symptom of modernist sickness.
Inflict no further such rambling thickness
Upon your readers. Here it is point-blank:
Beat-up prose scribblers’ quaint observations
May charm their author—but bore us to tears.
Dull poems age poorly. The passing years
Condemn them as quirky obfuscations.

Your buddy Ashbery: another dud,
Remembered by Department Heads, at best:
Abstract expressions that fall with a thud.
Bury them in a chap-book with the rest
Of the beatnik bards, whose typing careers
Only confirm our worst poetic fears.

Deserving all reviling, loathing, curse;
To be an art critic-- can it get worse?
Imagine appearing before the Lord,
In Christ's own kingdom, God's glory restored:
The One you ignored now judges your soul.
Your life is reviewed, opened like a scroll—
He looks through your motives, your soul, and heart.
Did you have faith?   Well... I wrote about Art.

Perhaps there exists something even worse...
Worse than atheist critics (and my verse):
Scribes who are devoted to Rock and Roll,
Rap, R & B, Pop in part or in whole.
Condemned by their works and their words alone:
The drivel they scribble for Rolling Stone
Must be answered for on the Judgement day
(Which none of them believed in anyway.)

Promoting silly lies by weakest links,
Global mental illness rattles its chains.
Truth smells refreshing—decadence stinks;
Confused men experience labor pains.
Leftist academics consult their shrinks;
Fabians murmur: “it’s stunning and brave”—
Your Marxist professor, the drag-queen, winks.

South crosses North in a permanent wave;
Gringos enforce it; Hispanic hope sinks.
America clearly has lost the plot;
Abuelita scowls while your tio blinks.
Plebeians still know what elites forgot;
Campesinos mock the deviant kinks—
Morenas are laughing at godless whites.

Sell it to the masses in pastel pinks.
Wrap it up nice with aid and human rights.
Promote it harder. We’ll finish the drinks—

    There IS a right way to pronounce “LatinX"!

Oh chica of New England snows!
Fair tropical Latina rose;
Green palms, of some warm distant clime
Shine from your eyes in wintertime.

Thy childhood in that tropic place,
Hath blessed thee with a dusky grace;
And all your pre-Columbian past
Must winter’s slushy chill outlast.

The rushing cars who make their way
Insult you with a frigid spray;
As from some humble task you wait
To catch the bus and change your fate.

Thy beauty, late transplanted, glows
To melt these white midwinter snows;
And cumbias from some southern zone
Sound from your soul with pulsing tone.

Your Christian heart, in solitude,
Has all our frozen land imbued;
America’s own breadth and length—
With campesina faith and strength.

From fascism to fascism,
Through a softer, sly disguise,
Under Satan’s dark baptism,
Tiny worlds meet their demise.

Genocide and degradation,
Artificial to the core,
Spirit’s death and mind’s stagnation—
Drowning deep in filth and gore.

Fear and blind submission lead us,
All foundations cast aside.
From fake plagues to beasts they breed us,
Till the herds are stupefied.

Fools don’t set the night in motion—
They need sheep, not hell unleashed.
Empty heads find full devotion
If their coats are soft and sleek.

But what path is left for moving?
Hell is here, it’s not ahead.
Hellspawn rule us, all-consuming,
Feasting on the souls they bled.

Politics is just a circus,
Where the clowns obey commands.
Truth is drowned in lies on purpose—
Crowds don't bite the guiding hands.

So, they earn their fate in measure,
For the madness owns their breath.
Not for years, but times unmeasured
They have worshipped lies to death.