Thinking about America’s idiomatic “slippery slope” while walking on a slippery slope, thinking how the Cossacks exploited this by chasing innocent women and children downhill, and the slave owners, the storm troopers how they’ve always used the landscape to their advantage. Thinking and walking in a dark time. Apple Music can’t drive this out. Happy tunes can’t beat the cossacks.
Of arrows I prefer the invisible—I’ve a dozen in my torso, ten or more in my face—blind children carry them far into adulthood, no visible markings.
Mornings I roll a wheel
East to West
North to South
In the privacy
Of my room
Eyes so wild he can’t flirt. But what if flirting is boring?
Now and then I have to whisper to myself as if the train station is a library.
Dear Mother, Or the History of the British Empire:
“Again I have failed. This time in the Punjab. Please send train tickets and a tin of biscuits with the Queen’s face on the lid.”
Oh the slippery slope. American version. The old joke: Why do they call the US a “melting pot?” Because the the rich bubble to the surface while the people at the bottom get burned.
Walking. Ice under foot.