The Bosses
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The Bosses - Sebastian Agudelo
Solie
Mugwump
O beggar, bigwig, mugwump
--W.H. Auden
If you got to look it up, don’t use it.
A pity since we’ve all known one:
guy checking time cards, signing requisitions,
woman working her way center stage
of my worries. Every decision she weighs,
I’m on the balance, the bigwig.
Turns out, as from the mess of history,
because the Algonquians
had no clue about Imperator
and Centurion, and seeing no way
to excise dominion and ranks from the account,
giving Caesar what’s Caesar’s so to speak,
and Antiochus the Seleucid’s also, John Eliot,
to let his catechumens into the kindling of the lord,
his Praying Indians in Natick, Ponkipog, Lowell,
rendered the smug of sovereign, war-lord, arrayer
in a single Wampanoag word, come down
as Mugwump, dated but still chiefly American
in its broad-brush picture of the nothings
who oversaw our stints at register or sink,
or the guy tightening the barmaid’s dirndl
or mid-level manager
and CEO too. They’re fine, I figure,
with our menial seasons, the bosses
seeing us cross over—shrugs of resignation—
from knuckle down to knuckle under
and since acquaintance with the eternal
requires no minutiae, lives by mass and matins,
Mugwump serves their kind right.
Late Capital
Not the graffiti on the delivery docks
of the boarded factory, though a detective
on TV insists the cedilla-like squiggle
points to a turf war with a body count.
Nor the stuff that was assembled there:
dome lounges, the Pioneer Zephyr;
and less so the ex-owner, mogul, titan,
put to pasture by the boys in M&A.
Not the irony of kids off the vocational high
a block away, their dare do’s, fights,
regroupings, throwing rocks to break
another pane like Luddites come too late.
The archeological footprint with tracks
of Rent-a-Fence sandbagged every length
as if to keep for the new settlers who never come
a carious hulk at sunset, our Götterdämmerung.
Urban Renewal
When the surveyors arrive
with theodolites and transits,
you know destruction is total,
as in no one has kicked stuff
out of the way in years,
so this, investor knows,
is no bad place to park
money for a while,
let markets settle.
The demo crew will come
sort brick from metal, haul it.
When the lot is furrowed
planners move their clipboards
and drawings to the mobile office.
Their ideas have people in them.
So like overfed apparatchiks
risen through ranks,
they rally around the certainty
of blueprints and projections,
the pro forma’s make-believe
with its parks and stores,
its low density housing,
a dry-walled land of behest.
The trouble with utopias
is the trouble in us.
Baudelaire is taking a stab at it
bewildered by Haussmann’s Paris,
bedeviled by a runway cob.
Augustine is going at it too
though his vantage point
is at the hearth, under
the nursing covers.
Doctor, Bishop, Berber Saint,
he is obsessed with breasts
and suck, to him the hub,
the nerve center to the domestic.
He’s going, how he wailed,
how he saw a child rage
at the sight of brother nursing.
What if tantrum outlives its purpose?
What if it abides, like sediment
latches to mantle and pearls
into the sort that would bring
calamities down on Rome?
He is down to the root of evil,
untangling the radicle of hunger
from the xylem of amour prope
and has a point: Who can tell
among the people out there?
If investor is anything to go by,
off his Jaguar to squinny at