Archive for February, 2017

Marcher at the Boston Womens' March

Marcher at the Boston Womens’ March


(Thanks to Memphis Earlene for allowing this re-post from her own Blog, Memphis Earlene)

Woke up this morning with the Blues. The Women’s March was outstanding, twice the size of Littlefinger’s Inauguration festivities and much more festive. But that was three days ago.

I need a better name for the Unmentionable One.

The man next to me in the Metro Elevator was talking on his cellphone in Russian. “Horror show, horror show”, he kept saying. Horror Show means “good” in Russian. I flunked Russian in high school but still remember a few words. Do Russian hackers control the Internet, or is it only a matter of time?

The Dumpster? Not quite.

Out on the Virtual Verandah this morning Memphis Earlene and Latte Woman drink White Russians, and speak in broken English with fake Russian accents . Boris and Natasha English.

Make America Great Again. Get rid of Moose and Squirrel. Report to Fearless Leader.

“In a cage fight, bet on the Russian,” says Latte Woman. “Agent Orange is a shameless liar and a natural born bully but Fearless Leader has steel teeth and KGB training.”

Agent Orange? Perfect.

“Can’t bet against America. Wouldn’t be right,” says Memphis Earlene.

“America’s a Fascist Dictatorship . All bets are off, ” I say.

” At least we have a Fascist Dictator who doesn’t read books,” says Latte Woman, who can always find a bright side.

Osip Mandelstam, 1891 – 1938

Our lives no longer feel ground under them.
At ten paces you can’t hear our words.

But whenever there’s a snatch of talk
it turns to the Kremlin mountaineer,

the ten thick worms his fingers,

his words like measures of weight,

the huge laughing cockroaches on his top lip,
the glitter of his boot-rims.

Ringed with a scum of chicken-necked bosses
he toys with the tributes of half-men.

One whistles, another meows, a third snivels.
He pokes out his finger and he alone goes boom.

He forges decrees in a line like horseshoes,
One for the groin, one the forehead, temple, eye.

He rolls the executions on his tongue like berries.
He wishes he could hug them like big friends from home


(photo: Elizabeth Searle, taken at the Boston Womens’ March, Jan 21, 2017)

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