Thursday, October 27, 2016

October 27: Hillary for Prison Sign, Hatred without Boundaries, Michael Collier, "All Souls"

Went by a neighbor's house this afternoon.  He has added a huge sign to the side of his house.  It reads "Hillary for Prison." 

I am tired of this whole political season.  Trump supporters frighten me more than zombies or werewolves or hockey-mask-wearing, knife-wielding homicidal maniacs.  I can live with all of those things.  There's ways of dealing with them--decapitation, silver bullets, sequels.  Trumpers are different.  Their brand of horror is full of hatred without boundaries. 

I am not going to get on a soapbox.  This Halloween season, there's some really scary shit out there. 

Saint Marty preferred it when his neighbors hid their prejudices.

All Souls

by:  Michael Collier

A few of us—Hillary Clinton, Vlad Dracula,   
Oprah Winfrey, and Trotsky—peer through   
the kitchen window at a raccoon perched   
outside on a picnic table where it picks

over chips, veggies, olives, and a chunk of pâte.   
Behind us others crowd the hallway, many more
dance in the living room. Trotsky fusses with the bloody   
screwdriver puttied to her forehead.

Hillary Clinton, whose voice is the rumble
of a bowling ball, whose hands are hairy
to the third knuckle, lifts his rubber chin to announce,   
“What a perfect mask it has!” While the Count

whistling through his plastic fangs says, “Oh,   
and a nose like a chef.” Then one by one   
the other masks join in: “Tail of a gambler,”   
“a swashbuckler’s hips,” “feet of a cat burglar.”

Trotsky scratches herself beneath her skirt
and Hillary, whose lederhosen are so tight they form a codpiece,   
wraps his legs around Trotsky’s leg and humps like a dog.   
Dracula and Oprah, the married hosts, hold hands

and then let go. Meanwhile the raccoon squats on   
the gherkins, extracts pimentos from olives, and sniffs   
abandoned cups of beer. A ghoul in the living room   
turns the music up and the house becomes a drum.

The windows buzz. “Who do you love? Who do you love?”   
the singer sings. Our feathered arms, our stockinged legs.   
The intricate paws, the filleting tongue.
We love what we are; we love what we’ve become.

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