Three Georgia Crackers
went ++++++  hunting
and bagged themselves
a  ++++++. Not a black man,
not a human being, a  ++++++.

His name was, is Armaud Arbery.
The Crackers did not know
his name that day, nor did they care.
They were proud of themselves.
They thought they got away with it.
The jury thought otherwise.

Thank goodness.

The needle, the vein:
conspirators.

The body, the brain:
accomplices.

The sweet poison:
irresistable.

Ten years of sobriety?
Those good intentions?
A child's balloon
snatched by the wind.
Gone.

Sandusky, Cosby, Madoff:
the wives riding the gravy train,
turning a blind eye

Sandusky: hiding upstairs,
ears finger-plugged, humming
to herself--whatever the Big Goof
was up to down in the basement
with those young boys
none of her business

Cosby: Disarming
his accusers with fake charm,
posing as a good friend while studiously
ignoring all those silly allegations,
as if her Dearly Beloved Meal Ticket
really was America's Favorite Dad
and not America's Most Famous
Serial Roofie-em First ******

Madoff: Hiding assets,
mailing her kids a million dollars
worth of jewelry and trying to keep
it a secret, on TV, she's so, so sorry,
never suspected a thing (okay Pinnochio)
moving now into a pricey mansion,
snacking on caviar again

And the victims? Too **** bad

Nauseous to meet you.
Nauseous to greet you.

Nauseous to look at you.
Nauseous to cook for you.

Nauseous to show you.
Nauseous to know you.

Nauseous to talk to you.
Nauseous to walk with you.

Nauseous to smell you.
Nauseous: to hell with you.

Are boring. And that's what gets you
into trouble. Out of sheer boredom
you drink too much, hit on women
with boyfriends, start arguments
about politics that turn into fights
and, toward the end of the night,
grow maudlin. You cry in your beer,
blubber over how your life
has been one big failure and,
eventually, drunk as a skunk, you puke
all over your shoes, slink off
to your apartment, pass out on the floor
and wake up the next morning
with a shiner and a hangover
wondering what in the hell happened.

Since I pulled up stakes
and ditched this hellhole
chances are the only time
I'll soil the pages
of my s**y hometown paper
again will be in the obits
when I croak.

No more drunk and disorderly
notices. No more photos
of me at anti-government rallies.
No more of my letters to the editor.
No more misleading articles
about the squabbles with my
puke-faced neighbors or my
allegedly delinquent tax payments.

So go ahead you crap-heads and find
someone else to kick around.

This dog is long gone.

This squalling babe
who pukes and poops
and keeps you awake
at night will, one day,
years from now,
and on her own,
hold your frail, dying
hand as you prepare
to depart this world.