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November the 6th (from Essex)

The calm of Lake

Erie is eerie,

looking beyond 

its settled sheen

 

to Ohio,

where the anthem of

4 shot dead

 

emboldened

love and peace,

but it was never

really enough.

 

It is never-ever

enough, when oligarchy

makes its way

onto the menu, with a bowl

of a billion

bribes

to start you off.

 

This was what we

feared, when women

see their wombs

reflect a face—

Donald, Junior, Eric,

or even creepy Barron—

his Damien/Omen

persona,

 

that a monarch

won out

in the bitter end,

when democracy

is wrapped

in dollar bills,

when the dumping

of tea

in a harbour

 

no longer means a thing ;

 

when Charlie the King

would have been 

a whole lot better ;

 

when orange

is the brand-new

white, just a swan

in the Russian ballet,

a marionette

in a psycho-

puppet show.

 

 

When we’ve tallied

up the dead, by the

dawn of ’29,

say it was simply

madness,  the plethora

of un-vaxxed children,

of Latino girls and boys,

of the one who’s both

and neither,

 

that sailing

will always come first,

for the “enemies within,”

exactly like

M.S. St. Louis—


turned away with Jews

at Cuban shores,

 

the horizon of

what-was-home

 

now eyed

on the journey back,

 

the outline

of the hills that, like

us, rise then fall

and then fall  once

more, worse than the

very first,

 

our betters

awaiting the relish

of lock and load,

 

not with swastikas

this time (though yes,

there’s always some of

those),

 

but the red of an

angry nation,

an angrier demi-

god,

 

not a crown  this time

but a cap,

 

MAGA filling the void

of what was worshipped—

YHWH, or the great I AM,

 

His Son—surely

misconceived,

who’ll come back

with a flaming sword—

 

read it in Revelation,

from the pages

of James the First,

nearly one-hundred-

and-eighty years before

the scroll of We the People,

 

which, as it turns out in ’24,

means only some  of us

are people:


the Caucasian

man and woman

buffing the shine

on the hull of their

yacht,


the one they’ll gladly take

across the lake,


from the city of

Sandusky,

to be Great

Again and Again,

 

"whether they like it

and whether they don’t"—

 

the cost of our

indifference, the shrug of

it is what it is.

 

 

 

Andreas Gripp

November 6, 2024


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