That Time of Year This Year

We come together in our time

Undifferentiated in our lies

Like so many blizzardy leaves 

Drifting, pouring over frosty lawns

We crowd those lies into surly lives

And wonder why we care enough,

To make the lies our lives, our hearts

Beg the question and turn our heads

Toward hope, living more than just doing,

Looking to the love in little ones pleading

But maybe we don’t care enough,

Should we care enough about the little ones?

Do we have the temerity to face hope’s

Uncertainty? We hang in the balance as

We walk the line and turn away, but the

Little ones, what about the little ones then?

So then we call out this special time of hearth

And home and family and friends and cheering

And that then yes the special time, you know, the

Time we forestall, smile awhile and make promises,

Yes even especially for the little ones, and to the

Little ones who look up at us with wondering eyes

Appealing, believing in their not knowing what

Else to feel, and then for us, what about the little ones?

Do we care enough this year, that time of year?

Do we care enough about anything, about ourselves?

It is that time of year again this year, can we care

Enough about the little ones, about ourselves?

The Trumpian Onanist Rallies

With the Boris breeze at his back, Trump will now shift to a weekly schedule of hiss rallies.  The avid lemmings of his proudly doleful precariate will be howling and braying their anthems to him, shivering in onanistic release as they bend the knee to his fiery masturbatory rhetoric. 

This is the same pathos that demagogues bring to all the nations who give up on the standards, norms and laws of their societies and governance.  The U.S. came close to this in the 30s (Father Coughlin, et al) and 50s (Belly Gunner Joe McCarthy and his HUAC), but we never actually bit the apple.  Maybe we had more guts back then.  We sure had enough guts to make the sacrifices and fight the battles of WW II. I don’t remember looking around to discover a loud mouth savior, snake oil salesman to provide for the solutions.  We didn’t seek the enervation of post-orgasmic thrill from the rants and whining of a man-child poseur.  We still had pride and shame, which cannot be found among the lemmings and their Pied Piper.

To my fellow citizens in the doleful precariate: You will have a bill to pay that you won’t be able to put on your plastic card.   The bill will be to cover all the costs your cheers and braying cover now.  And it will cover the loss of your independence.  That’s the truth that hides behind baseball caps and T-shirts.