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The President of the United States

Did you all see the President of the United States yesterday tell the reporter to take off the mask? Yup… the reporter was asking for clarification for some freshly delivered low energy lie, and the President of the United States told him to take off his mask, almost mocking him for wearing it.

Trump likes to mock people, that’s what little bullies do. He doesn’t limit himself to mocking journalists with crippling disabilities, like he did in 2015, so I guess that’s a good thing.

His contempt for the free press should be enough for anyone to vote to remove him. Babies in cages, should have been enough. Storm troopers in our cities should have been enough. Stirring racial hate, should have been enough. Mocking that disabled journalist should have been enough. “Some very fine people,” should have been enough. Russian bounties on US service members should have been enough. Calling dead American soldiers losers should have been enough. The reaction to the hurricane in Puerto Rico should have been enough. The things he said about John McCain should have been enough. California on fire and the suggestion to sweep the forest floor should have been enough. Snorting Clorox and UV light up your ass should have been enough. Wanting to nuke hurricanes should have been enough. Pumping money to already rich corporations and calling it a middle class tax break should have been enough. 200,000 dead Americans and 6.5 million cases of Covid—and still out of control—should have been enough. His economy now in shambles—far worse than you realize right now—should have been enough. Trying to destroy and use the Post Office as a political tool, should be enough. The fact that this loose cannon has the nuke codes and could kill all of us, should be enough!

This list of his absurdities, many flat-out dangerous, is almost as long as his list of lies.

Enough…

E-Fucking-nough.

The President of the United States doesn’t give a shit about you, never did, never will. You are not on his MAGA train, you are his brainwashed, brain dead cult.

Who’s Zoomin’ Who?

This year, 2020, the US government has spent at least $1.5 TRILLION on the military. At least $2 TRILLION on corporate bailouts to already rich corporations, and another $1.5 TRILLION to artificially keep the stock market numbers high.

That’s $5,000,000,000,000, American.

Our kids are being educated using free apps from Zoom and Google Meet.

Many, many kids have no access to high speed Internet or decent computers

Ponder that.

Education should not be an afterthought if we hope to maintain any standing in the world.

I sound like a broken record. This is really how it starts, how the end starts.

The Work

I loved the farm and loved the farmer and hated the work.

Ain’t nobody ever said they liked that work, that wasn’t lying.

Nobody ever liked near electrocution, every day, trying to outsmart a fence that’s would knock a goddamn cow on his ass. Nobody ever liked cleaning corn out silage. Nobody ever liked being the 1968 designated dead turkey chaser; head-first jamming a squawking, kicking bird into that galvanized steel funnel death chamber, then chasing him around the barnyard, often slipping and falling and catching the headless bird, in a fresh pile of cow shit.

After six decades of living and five-and-half working, ain’t not a fucking thing harder than haying in July; nothing, but the only true peace I’ve ever known was standing next to short-cut and empty field, sunburned and dehydrated and exhausted, knowing that work was done.

I hated the work, it’s lessons, the journey, but knew the farm was worth the work.

Soldiers in the Road

She was an ordinary, quiet, and plain old woman, but her modesty and simplicity betrayed a wisdom and vision that only comes from years of listening more than speaking. The dirt under her fingernails expressed a truth that no man could contest.

She rocked back and forth in her chair, the dry wooden boards of her porch squeaking to her rhythm. She spoke of these waning September days, running Hell-bent into the cold of October. I watched her old boots and dirty socks move in time; they make an odd fashion complement to her old flower-patterned cotton dress.

“Was a time,” she began to speak, “When this was when we took a rest, we’d get dressed up nice and fine and go dancing, and we’d eat off fancy China plates. That’s before all the money was gone, and the soldiers come through taking everything they could eat or steal or fuck.”

“This time of year, the hay is in the barn, and the apples is in crates and all them winter squash and potatoes is down in the root cellar, and a body could sit back and enjoy the fruits of our summer and look forward to the next year.”

She pauses as another caravan of heavily armored trucks loaded with men in uniforms rumbled passed her porch, kicking up flumes of heavy red dust. The dirt made the old woman cough and swear, and she stood up, walked out to the road and raised a fist, a few soldiers laughed. She picked up a rock and threw it, but the trucks were long gone, and the rock rolled away and off the road and into the knee-high grass.

Sitting, again, and using her palms to scuff and beat the road dirt from the pretty marigolds and bluebells on her dress, she said, “There was a time, ‘bout now in the year when the fields was all gold and dry, and some was full of pumpkins, and every tree, especially them maples and oaks was the color of fire: all oranges, and reds, and one could look back on the harvest and forward to a bit of rest. Now I can’t see back nor front, I’m just looking down and wondering how it all come to this so quick.”

“Was a time,” she spoke quietly, with a fear in her voice, “When I’d take comfort in seeing them soldiers. That time has passed.”

The Light in August

Listening to Dylan’s Forever Young and sliding my hand into what must certainly be the last of many bags of summer’s cherries. Late August cherries are not as sweet as June cherries, and the flesh is thicker and pulpy, less juicy.

Pondering, as I do every summer after the meteors come flying Perseus, did Faulkner write about the lengthening shadows of August, or was there more to it. For me, that was always enough.

August and the reckoning that the best days are again in the rearview mirror.