A History of the Martyrs of Love, the Fools of Tyrants, the Tyrants Themselves Weeping

It would forfeit what little remains of my bleggal integrity if I didn't ask you, How's that shithouse of an Eastern Shore?





Rest in Peace, William Donald Schaefer, my favorite politician ever, who I would vote for today. Here's begging Hamster to comment.

Now, because I woke up with this song in my head and was going to post it solo as a second April theme song and not because it has anything to do with William Donald Schaefer:

• Throw out the money-changers.
• Beliefs beget actions.  
• Of course it was.
• The coming collapse of the middle class.
• Srebrenica. America will be Serbia by 2030.
• Trump for POTUS!
• Food sovereignty.
• Back to normal.  
• Flooding.
• How avant is it?
• Gnostic gospel.
• Pink lady lemonade.

BLUEPRINT

Tom Sleigh

I had a blueprint
of history
in my head —

it was a history of the martyrs
of love, the fools
of tyrants, the tyrants
themselves weeping
at the fate of their own soldiers —

a sentimental blueprint,
lacking depth —
a ruled axis X and Y
whose illusions
were bearable . . .
then unbearable . . .

In that blueprint, I wanted to speak
in a language
utterly other, in words
that mimicked
how one of Homer's warriors
plunges through breastplate
a spear past
breastbone, the spearpoint searching
through the chest
like a ray of light searching
a darkened room
for the soul
unhoused, infantile,
raging —
but my figure of speech,
my "ray of light" —
it was really a spearpoint
piercing the lung
of great-hearted Z
who feels death loosen
his knees, the menos
in his thumos
flying out of him —

the fate of his own soul
to confront me
beyond the frame:

no room, no X, no Y, no "ray of light,"
no menos, no thumos, no Z —

only sketched-in plane
after plane after plane
cantilevering upward and forever throughout space.