Brat Power

image by Wesley Moore

brat, noun

a disparaging CHILD specifically an ill-mannered annoying child, a spoiled brat

b: an ill-mannered immature person

                                                Merriam Webster On-Line Dictionary

the perverts, the perverters of language,

    the perverts, who have set money-lust

Before the pleasures of the senses

                                                Ezra Pound, “Canto XIV”[1]


Perhaps modeled on Josh Hawley’s raised fist on 6 January as the Senator from Missouri manfully strode past the soon-to-be insurrectionists, Donald Trump has in recent days been photographed clenching and raising his Pinocchio-sized paws in an obscene appropriation of the Black Power salute of the 1960s.[2]

This gesture has replaced the two-thumbs up pose Trump favored in those halcyon days before the confiscation of classified documents he had stolen from the National Archives, those relatively placid days of mere impeachment, Congressional hearings, attempted election overthrowing, and income tax evasion.

I mean, come on. Trump’s ripping off the iconography of Huey Newton and Bobby Seale is sort of like Vladimir Putin twisting his legs into the lotus position and reciting the Sermon on the Mount.

I mean, you raise your fist to defy the Man, not to spur on a latter-day incarnation of the KKK.

Donald Trump and Josh Hawley are the Man, in favor of teargassing peaceful Black protesters.

“Why can’t you just shoot them? Just shoot them in the legs or something?” Trump asked his Secretary of Defense Mark Esper.

Not Power to the People but Power to the Elite.

Brat Power, not People Power.


[1] The irony is not lost on me that I’m quoting a fascist poet here, doing in a lesser sense what I’m accusing Trump and Hawley of doing.

[2] Of course, Hawley’s jogging exit from the capitol during the riot was not, shall we say, the stuff of the traditional Western hero, not the stuff of Hercules – or Andy of Mayberry for that matter.

Loose Cadences for Loose Cannons: The Capitol Insurgent Doggerel Taxonomic Commode Ode

The fever swamps of the radical right
Teem with an abundance of exotic wildlife,

A vast array of various species
Thriving on a regimen of bovine feces.

Look! A QAnon Shaman, bare-chested, toting a spear,
Sporting a smile instead of a sneer,

Stomping around the Capitol wreaking havoc
Fueled by a diet that’s 100% organic.

Then there’s the less colorful Klete Keller,
Who looks to be a regular sort of fellow,

Tall, wholesome-looking, clean-cut, strong of jaw,
A gold-medal winner on the wrong side of the law.

Off duty cops, insurance agents, adjunct professors
Among the herd of headweak aggressors,

A motley crew: CEOs, politicians, welders, sailors,
Some dwelling in mansions, others in trailers,

And militia men galore, bearded, cosplaying Rambo,
Their lingua franca crazy batshit mumbo jumbo,

All exhibiting a disdain for natural selection,
Maskless as they swarm to overthrow the election,

Recording their crimes with selfies and live streams
Taking self-incrimination to ridiculous extremes.

Yet when the FBI arrives to initiate their torment,
They whine and say, “I was just caught up in the moment.”

Like I said, the fever swamps of the radical right
Teem with an abundance of exotic wildlife.

Bravo, Ted!

U.S. Vice President Joe Biden, right, rests his head in his hand during a viewing for his son, former Delaware Attorney General Beau Biden, Thursday, June 4, 2015, at Legislative Hall in Dover, Del. Standing with Vice President Biden are Beau Biden's widow, Hallie, from left, and daughter Natalie, and the the vice president's wife Jill. Beau Biden died of brain cancer Saturday at age 46. (AP Photo/Patrick Semansky, Pool)

Stunted is a harsh word, but I think it does justice to Ted Cruz.

Oh, I’ve read about how brilliant he is, how he blazed his way through Princeton, won the Speaker Award at the 1992 North American Debating Championship, edited the Harvard Law Review, etc., but, as the saints, say, “What profit a man if he garner academic accolades but has a social IQ that falls far below Quasimodo’s?”

It’s as if Cruz has never ventured outside the grandiosity of his egomania to even bother having imagined being anyone but himself.

I’ll offer two quick examples. Last Monday, with a microphone in his hand, he mocked Joe Biden as Biden’s eldest son’s coffined body lay in a funeral home in Delaware. Certainly, Cruz follows the news, certainly he had read of Beau Biden’s death, certainly he could wait a couple of weeks before publicly mocking the Vice President.

Earlier, in April, showing his softer side at a fundraiser at the penthouse of gay businessmen Ian Reisner and Mati Weiderpass, Cruz declared, “If one of my daughters was (sic) gay, I would love them (sic) just as much.”

How noble! After witnessing her birth, giving her bottles, changing her diapers, guiding little spoons into her little open mouth, watching her take those first awkward steps, listening to her delighted pre-verbal laughter, trying to make out those first hard-to-decipher sentences, running beside her as she learned to ride a bike, witnessing her transformation from a girl to a young lady, he would still love his daughter if she were gay!

Bravo, Ted!