The divine deeds of August done, birthdays and retrogrades, retiring rhetoric before Irene gores the shores. We are no longer one, our desert tents closed against the sandstorm on opposite ends of this war camp. The new moon passing a statesman, our regards meaning jack in the general scheme. Maybe we are emboldened by this tax revolt, this rejection of too many lies, the recognition in the streets that we have lost our way. But maybe we are just foreclosing on lifelong dreams, the trend of a dying industry, the time to read, the lambs succumbing to another scam, sacrificing our propensity to hope, to make a difference, to avoid feeling paranoid and sick, when all in all it’s just another brick…
