The VengefulnWe deem it meet and orthodoxnto store our hearts in Reynolds wrap,nto hunt the cow, to milk the fox,nto think of anger as a map.nThe end of life is commonplace;nwe stack our weapons in the hall.nWe dress for love as outer space.nOur saint is Simon Wiesenthal.nWe sleep awake, we dance The Torque,nOur eyes are serpents under glass.nOur password is the three-tined fork.nThe future is what comes to pass.nThe Slothfulnby Dabney StuartnYou have seen the whales expire on our beaches:nthey faintly heave, and flibber about the blowholenas if sighing for an ocean without oil.nSo a culture might quiver as it vanishes.nWe long for nothing but our own inertia.nThe soughing often mistaken for a grovenof trees waving is the sound we make when we move.nYou should not look forward to our departure.nThe famous trough we are supposed to feed fromnexists only in your mind. It’s been enoughnsince we began to displace the holographnof your will with our solid kingdom come.nThe DecadentnWe have been here long enough to learnnthere is nothing new under the sun.nWe no longer seek even surceasenfrom boredom, or read Ecclesiastes.nIf we feel the faintest insinuationnof desire, as a breezenhints itself into summer grass,nwe imagine what it would be likento do this, or that, and the glimmer dies.nIf regret stirs with its seasoned irk,nor something crawls, or swims, or flies,nwe are at peace with such simulation.nWe have had it all, and that suffices.nnnMAY 1991/13n