Inferior Man Poem by Stan Petrovich

He grovels at shooting ranges,
the peicemeal remnants of
luck that he cannot make
for himself. Greed,
laughing at the portent,
he is wholly fraught in his
present goodness. The wizards
and gods present his presentiment.
What call does he make to the
blue mountain ridge? His anguish.
What makes him laugh the most
is the suffering of animals.He
kills animals with high-powered weapons made
in Connecticut. They discharge back
back into his gloomy face, a
face to be reckoned with, red
and drunken with self-destruction.
His sex is violent and unworthy,
pocketed in $100-dollar jeans
he never paid for, his wives paying
him to master gravvity and graveness.
They are well-dressed, and they never think well enough,
or see the storm ahead.