A Torn Envelope, No Return Address

The amphitheater’s crowd draws a silenced anger
as tragedy and comedy the cast and crew confuse.
All the world’s a stage for the revenge-exacting fools,
but when the scripts are scrubbed clean, who controls who?
Some from the audience up and leave,
to mourn the fallen Muse, laid to eternal rest;
those who stay settle in and loiter
awaiting the leery Host’s marching orders.
Expression became control in these United States:
the dialectic’s culture-war became our fate.
Washington surrendered upon Horkheimer’s advance
as decorum languished and hedonism grew great.

February 20th

Yellow truths from silver tongues
hide black motives from golden hearts.
Yet, the liars’ hot air conjures the early Spring,
warming the limbs of the impatient patriots.
Beware the Ides of March, warns Caesar,
and the restless Sons of the Sun sally forth
Waiting for marching orders. An eagle soars
above the fields, feasting on the naive field-mice.

Nevertheless, Wall Street reports success.
Money in arms, money in furs.