Shame

A thousand tweets of lunacy

and, thus, thousands of boots trammeling

the Constitution.

The Confederacy rises again,

but this time in the halls of the Capitol,

its head ordained by the

small thumbs of the president

even as he disavows the chaos

with his wolfish smirk.

“Where we go one, we go all,”

the sheep say,

a flock whose fanged shepherd

delights in its herd mentality, its

stampede toward the cliff of

Disunion,

crashing into the turbulent sea,

their white fleece like the

choppy froth

of a tempest temper tantrum,

spiraling down as a whirlpool

into the depths of wreckage and ruin

and the trench of Ignorance.

Such a flock!

Blinded not by

tear gas

or rubber bullets

or blinking police lights,

but by the faith in a wolf;

blindfolded by his

slobbering tongue,

anointed by his

sly licks of faux-love

which rallies them into the frenzied state

of a

third-world country’s revolt.

And what of his enablers?

What of the cowboys that let the skin-changer

run free among the flock?

What of those that encouraged him

to eat the hobbled lambs

with his eager jaws?

They are

midwives to Madness

flinching at the end-of-term delivery

as if

they have no blood and piss and shit

on their hands,

disavowing all after

helping bring into this world

l’enfant terrible

and the horrific caesarean afterbirth

of a ruptured nation.

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