Time to blow the dust off the gray cells and dive into “poetry” again.
Trigger warning: it ain’t gonna be pretty this year. I’m grumpy.
I’m fearful, tired, downtrodden, pessimistic. I’m fighting against the tide.
Things Fall Apart We’ve had no real winter. It’s a sign. Perhaps the earth is cooking now with a billion evil passions, each human cauldron sending its burning deep into tree roots. The optimism I’ve tried to whip up against these boiling passions is melting now with the ice caps, flooding under gnarled tree roots -- optimism breeds fools, patsies, losers. That, at least, is what the old ghosts tell me, icy breath melting the back of my neck. My ancestors are agitated. Fools, they whisper, losers, craving the classical dictators, the ruly frenzy of righteous mobs, iron fists on the backs of hopeful necks. The dead patriarchs refuse to rest quiet; they won’t lie down again without a fight, the iron fist, an organized frenzy to end in a cataclysm of epic proportions. I try to quiet their apocalyptic voices, each a cauldron boiling the lava of fear and hatred into a storm of cataclysmic proportions -- we’ve had no real winter. It’s a sign.
