Ides

What’s edgier than a knife?

Nothing, according to Julius,

not surgical birth

nor a salad with anchovies.

Where is our Brutus?

Damn sure not in the Senate.

Berlin in Boston.

Welcome to the Department of just ICE.

Cleopatra was cleaner,

snagged a Tony while she was at it,

seducing with her body:

eyes of kohl, dangerous curves,

serpentine sway of hips.

That killer asp.

This mockery of Rome

with shit-smeared walls housing cowards

who use their knives at dinner,

or chuckle at their clever ability

to rest blades in the carcass of history

while a minotaur who doesn’t know the labyrinth

rages through once-hallowed halls,

the room Henry Clay held together by eloquent force.

the compromised compromiser compromised beyond the grave.

When roses last in Jackie’s garden grew, the East Wing stood.

Now bullies wave banners, call hatred heritage.

Checks unbalanced, books overcooked. How long til they burn?

Our decline staring us in the face, Faulkner in Stockholm and Eliot in England,

Bombs to make us stop reading.

The Lolita files.

“Khameni, one of the most evil people in History (sic), is dead”—US President Trump

“Kettle? Please hold for the POT(US).”

Willie’s prick never slipped a trick like this. Protective perjury? Maybe Justice should shuck off that blindfold, see how the scales tip when the tail wags the dog.

nine-eleven two-twenty-seven

Tehran.