Apprentice reruns, Quanon posts, bread and circuses. The Freedom Caucus thrives in a MAGA echo chamber. Imagine them in heated debate over dancing angels on pinheads. Rapture them up, please, before it’s too late. Deliver us, oh Lord, from this theocracy.
They’re loyal to a simple truth: Truth Social. Grifts, disruption, distortions, self-serving tripe, confounding Crap written by cowardly charlatans. What they say is different From what they do.
His Darkness says, “I am your retribution. The future belongs to us.” He lies. Lured by a MagaVerse siren song, They believe him. They break things with no thought for rebuilding.
His eyes were open and stayed that way Aware and dignified, right up to the end. A mensch, reserved, not prone to delay, Loyal to a fault, on that you can depend.
Saucy he was in the final hours, Demanded kibble, a last meal at midnight. Poured out love, licks, and reassurance.
Despite his weak body, his power Did prolong the end, enough so that we might Say woof, shed our tears, take one last dance.
He knew it was the end. We, quite sure, thought that he would rally. He lay quiet, dignified, a friend and most trusted ally.
Exiled to the backyard, While inside the termite inspector inspects, Kohnan limps to the door, Pleads with liquid brown eyes. He doesn’t bark; has no energy for that these days.
“He’s friendly.” The inspector nods. Kohnan sidles in quietly. He’s drawn blood. He can be protective, even with friends. Not now. Mornings he wakes up slowly in a fog of old age.
He’s at my feet, Moving his head to the sound of steps in the attic. The sun falls in patterns, Warms my legs, his arthritic hips. Warmth is welcome to us both, we’re grateful spring is coming fast.
Chug-a-chug, chug-a-chug, down the track they go. On a kind of mission bent. Lickety-splitly off they went Some would say they’re heaven sent. Here is what I know.
Mistress Minna was a nymph, a beauty so they said. In a tree she kept her comb, Ancient heirloom made from bone. One fine morning she intoned, “Guards, a thief has fled.”
Sure enough the comb was gone; thief fled on the train. So they followed on the track. Tried to get the bone comb back. Gantry singing clicky-clack, Pumping in the rain.
Tracks were damaged in the storm. They caught him.
Haven’t you heard? The elder statesman is packing. Emperor Discord is prancing to Palatine Hill in a red toga. He’s promised bread and circuses. He’s planning a retro-empire Roman regime.
After the wall comes the coliseum. No need to go in person. See pictures on X. Read the retweets. Watch Fox trust, they will not verify. Comedians, prepare to roast.
The joke’s on us. All the bread is meant for the one percent. Even now, they’re pulling up the stakes on the circus tent. You’ll find the performers leaving at midnight on the gravy train. Ticket price: unwavering, groveling loyalty.
Crystal White sleeps through spring and summer. Tats fine lace on crisp fall days. In winter, an icy wraith, She crusts roofs, coats bare branches. Under deciduous trees, leaves clump, stiff to the ground.
She casts a spell. Keeps me warm abed. Reluctant to heed the call of morning’s light, I dream of fragrant gingerbread. Relaxed under a blanket, I peruse the glossy pages of a travel book. A fire warms the room. The logs crumble to embers.
Resigned, I set aside all thoughts of reprieve. Dark days are coming, Winter before spring. Grim hiatus, but these trials will pass.
Death disrupts life’s everydayness. Ends the companionship of eating together, Evening walks and midnight talks With friends and family.
Ends the companionship of eating together, Thoughts shared, words and deeds. These bring us close With friends and family, Confer death its sting through everyday loss.
Thoughts shared, words and deeds, these bring us close. Long before we die these precious threads loosen, Confer death its sting through everyday loss. Everyday loss creeps up, settles in softly
Long before we die these precious threads loosen, Evening walks and midnight talks. Everyday loss creeps up, settles in softly. Death disrupts life’s everydayness.
There’s a moment when I think about a lonely alone in the future because life throws these things at you, especially at our age.
Would that be okay? Could I make it work?
No. I would end up down infinite rabbit holes, an eternity of recursions, chasing Red Queens and Cheshire Cats, my own tail. Not making sense.
Your presence anchors me in this time, this here and now present. I depend on the steady chronology of your day-in, day-out goodness, depend on the moments we intersect at intervals to talk, to eat, to share a thought.
Monica's Monday Morning Flash 