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Tuesday, November 8, 2016

A Prose Poem for the Trump Ascendancy

When we wake up tomorrow we will immediately begin scratching our heads trying to figure out how much the world changed overnight.  A bloodless coup.  Winter in America is queued up on the soundtrack once again.  Remember the 1980's?  Remember Nancy and her astrologer? Remember Bill Casey running the CIA?  Ollie North?  Oh fuck, we were so much younger then, and more resilient.  We could take a real pounding.  We could take a cold hard decade going underground with our dreams, burrowing in.  Artists and cicadas have that much in common it seems.  But today things feel that much more fragile and the pace of change has quickened so much more.  It may almost be winter in America again but the planet is a hot mess and we have a megalomaniac and crackpot about to turn up the heat a little more.

So later this morning, after the sun rises across the continent, and as the nation is preparing to take its first step forward on the way to being remade in the image of Trumpian greatness, I've decided to do my own small part by going out into the garden, where I plan to cover the asparagus bed with some straw and also plant a few rows of garlic well in advance of our first deep frost. You see, this time around I want to be fully prepared for what's coming, and I intend to make the most of winter in America, as very surely it will soon be here.


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