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Caligula Comes To Town

“let us not allow the dead to be killed –“ Zbigniew Herbert


How sad it is to hate the culture you love when you love the country you hate


These days we have to be prepared to carry our coffins with us everywhere we go

To bear them on our backs
To wear them deep inside our grins
To hide them in our heads for safekeeping


We live in fear because our leader is a pathogen whose better angels breed on sorrow and despair. They suckle dreams of torture in their sleep. They wash their wings in gasoline and take their secret pleasure sexing spiders in the dark. They believe in nothing you or I might sing about, but love to raise their voices high in praise of country, God and bling.


Yesterday this mighty ruler came to town in his armored car with his white face full of chocolate cake and his well-greased body tightly encased in a blood stained girdle.

His bristling menace teaches us to understand how mediocrity and fate sometimes travel hand in hand. 

Some say this man resembles a badly infected wound about to burst its swollen sac of leaking flesh, but people who adore him understand how lucky we are to be living in a land of gold commodes and bulging pants.


It seems that dread and grief have many uses.  We are learning to live without sleep.  We are learning to keep our eyes wide open in the dark.  We are learning to wear the night around our necks as if it were a noose.


That dying sound you hear is a wake up call to let you know your voice has vanished in the wind. It will never be heard again. The people you love and trust have run beyond the reach of rain. They are hiding underground. They are singing by the fire. They are counting up their bones.


According to the latest news someone is burning the air alive.
Someone is filling the rain with lead.
Someone is waiting to rob the blind.
And someone is coming to kill the dead.

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