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.
Tangleroot And Tressknot 