The baboons congregate
to strut and dominate.
They screech and bite,
throw stones at their broken houses
and call it a war.
Their fear-rinsed hearts,
fish-belly white,
leached of all compassion,
hold only vanity.
Their thoughts with bent grain,
like cord-wood from box-elder,
stinking of urine,
good only for burning
Great slabs of stupid,
so stained with talking points
and pig shit.
They text their bile
and wave their foam fingers
and shoot holes in their relatives
and random strangers
and their feet.
They are blind to reason,
immune to fact.
Words mean nothing to them,
marks on papers or glowing screens,
strings of random letters
with pauses to breathe and eat and drink.
I bared my incisors
as I pointed and laughed at them.
I stooped to slurp from the watering hole
and wash the blood off my multi-colored snout.