There's a rooster crowing somewhere and a tree groaning in the wind. I know. It sounds like the opening of a poem. It's not. I have no rhyme. I have no reason. I have frustration, anger, sadness, impatience, embarrassment, outrage, despair, resentment, and, to some degree, utter disgust.
It's 95 degrees and I'm sitting by the pond, not feeling poetic. Not really energetic. Sorry for the rhyme. It's sometimes automatic. Helps to dull the static.
See what I mean?
This is going to be short and not at all sweet. You know the drill. Different day, different insult. No need to repeat. Trump sued himself, in effect, over taxes. His returns were leaked along with thousands of others. His hand-puppet attorney general "negotiated" a deal. Trump and his family never have to go through a tax audit ever in their lifetimes. Oh, and the criminals who attacked the United States Capitol on January 6, 2020, will have a $1.7 billion slush fund from which they can try to claim "damages" for trying to overthrow the government.
Republicans in Congress, of course, think this is all just fine. Cowards toeing the line. (Sorry.)
It gives me no great joy to repeat that I wrote a column in 2016 predicting that Trump would be the death of the Republican Party. It's been proven many times over by now and reinforced on a daily basis with every embarrassing "speech" he delivers. Each one is testament to his ego and ignorance and increasing mental instability. But the real MAGAS don't care and the Republican politicians know they're stuck with it now. No guts, no glory. Same sad story.
I'm coming up on 85 and still glad to be alive. But the America I grew up in and lived through most of my life has been raped and pillaged by Trump and his henchmen and women and, yes, it is depressing. Writing relieves the stressing.
It also nourishes hope. Hope that the Epstein files will soon indict every co-conspirator. That Clarence Thomas will receive the justice due him. That the millions of Americans who don't bother to vote will realize what their apathy has done. That the mainstream media regains its spine and its voice. That future generations will be able to read the true history of this dark chapter.
There's more, but you get the drift. Keep fighting. I'll keep writing. If this were a poem, it would be an elegy, if not a dirge. I will continue to resist the urge.
