longer.blue

A protest poem against tyranny. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. …If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat but in submission and slavery! --Patrick Henry, March 23, 1775. FEAR NOT, GREAT PEOPLE OF MINNESOTA, THE DAY OF RECKONING & RETRIBUTION IS COMING! --Donald Trump, the day before the execution of Alex Pretti, January 24, 2026 So they’d caddy like golf clubs the bones of more than just migrants and brown folk like me! They tee up the golf ball of each eyeball for their sundowning king. Oh, he’s napping (what’s happening?) on the cane of his club; his thugs put their feet up, and their bellies make bras of their bullet proof vests and what’s happening with the snow, its redactions of filth? Day rots to gold foil, in the Midas-touched guilt of a Gilded Age. A urinous coil of police tape skids under a jackboot, but the ‘don’t treat on me’ Serpent is ecstatic now the Web is mere static for tech money. With the illusory truth effect and the bleaching of history, they make it so Pretti and Good (who both cared for the Good and the Beautiful!) must be evil since they were killed and then slandered! How dutiful to Caligula’s whims, to the pubes of his signature! So much hatred of the whole New World and its liberation fights! Of the whole Old World palisaded in Northern Lights! In such darkness my eyes feel like solar eclipses. But my soul is a patient corona; it’s George Floyd’s Minneapolis full of ICE—-where the heavens aren’t snowing but spitting. What’s happening as the tyrant’s car sweats down the City On The Hill? What’s happiness but Springsteen’s still-in-the-fight song?