OUTRAGE CONTEST: To the Fourth Estate

Marianne Taylor

What have you done
you farting flarfists?
you mystic pizzas?
you fiddleheaded philanderers?
you sloppy puppies shitting on the moon?
you stale crumbs who cannot win the prize?
What did you do
about the kingdom in the desert?
about the warming human planet
kicked into submission?
about all these faces
smeared with manure?
While they/you figured out how best to steal,
you/they sold the middle class
looked for ways to torture
head lice, swollen lips,
Dancing With the Stars,
"pure alcohol” “tragic.”
Your works frightened the poor/us
trying to keep your hands from snatching
trying to preserve our/their shaky orbits
so you could make for your living
a dung beetle’s breakfast
flung in your face.
Without seeing the quarks are bleeding,
without opening your pens
you’ve been blinder than rust
in the bottom
of this filthy pail.




Nonfiction
Poetry
Fiction