John Maynard Keynes put it this way: Capitalism is the astounding belief that the wickedest men will do the wickedest things for the greatest good of everyone. But enough about Trump.
When greed and arrogance are valorized and smarts are vilified,
I need a remedy. So, I stroll in the garden I don’t have and pick up the cello I
don’t play. Yet the coleus leaves are bent as if toward music and leaves
are falling into goldfish.
Having taken refuge inside Keats’ odes and urn I emerge rhyming with every word and empowered like a heroic couplet.
I am insinuated with sky. Today’s dome was particularly vast, saturated with a blue not-seen-before. It was furrowed with cloud formations like rows in a vineyard or a wrinkled brow having just discovered a cure for loathing.
Breath held becomes breath released sufficient to refresh
the foul air. Gusty winds enter windows to vent the miasma. Spring bulbs stir in anticipation.
Thanks, will be given. No food-fights over white and dark meat.
Our Founding Fathers are my fantasy guests seeking forgiveness for the sin of an
Electoral College.
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