"The steady eyes of terrorists . . ."
The steady eyes of terrorists stare into the frantic eyes
of my fellow countrymen, alternately sharp and confused,
each side waiting the next crusade to begin with the election
of a man too rich for fiction, too impoverished for the real
thing. (Bruegel would blush. Juvenalian satirists set aside
their pens.) Line one, third act, fifth scene. “I, Donald J.
Trump, call for a complete ban on all Muslims. . . .” Party
leaders setting aside their flimsy masks of principles, ideologues
asserting what they are piercingly aware they no longer believe,
public incredulity on Icarian wings, scaling graphs never
previously imagined, the rising crescendo of the Dance
of Death twirling about our ears. The wheels are coming
off the cart. The cart is bolting from the track, flying
toward the precipice. There is no waking from this.
(This morning's poem. Happy, happy, joy, joy.)
