What We Pay For
by Richard Hamilton
In that monetized pothole is the subjective life
a waterlogged rat buoyant on the jet-black oily pool,
petulant swirl with leftover wishes that mar the air we
live with. You too can have this if you work hard
enough. Aspiration Boeing. You too can promulgate
scholars rational as ash, ashes. Crispy subjects
the pomegranate wine toast you proposed at Martha’s
Vineyard coupled with an appeal fell on deaf ears. Any
Bill Clinton blushed, you think, before knocking back
a few more. To repudiate, the puddle muddles reality for
which we all see something different: land of the free,
not blacks and white congeniality, a great many
underwritings, coochie
coochie, coo. The beheaded summer blue
bells mowed down. For Space and Security division for
which the right assassin wind, political moment would
prop you up, put you on as Tintin Merry
Christmas trade-in on what we won’t see. The irregular
slugs interred behind the scene, $735 million in
weaponry bought us a botched nose job.