Time’s solemn ache traverses freedom, drunk clowns and thugs seek obliteration. History ends, exculpation starts. Privacy sequestered in virtual weeds, conformity’s patriotic terror, ballooning misery narcotized once more again, always. Exculpatory explication’s naked hope, emboldened pleas, flounder: one by one . . . moon rising, the spirit quelled succumbs.
I. 1859 “What to the Slave is the fourth of July?” asked Frederick Douglass the abolitionist prophet once enslaved who stole and then wrote himself free. Today I think Lonely. II. 2015 The hurricane has been down graded to a tropical storm but there is poetic justice despite the […]
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