Let’s put on monocles, protract roll call,
and, in the tattered photo’s many greys,
count them in striped pajamas and berets,
these savant-frauds flogged by the wind of fall.
Daltons, Robespierres they are, experts in tune
with the great socialist experiment
who rescue boatloads to our detriment.
Let’s hoist them high and put them on the moon.
No furnace for these kosher cops and reds,
no smoke for trans-totalitarians,
only light as pale as Aryans,
and, stardust, frozen-over river beds.
March 7-9, 2018
The Most Dangerous Game: Capital Riddles in Western Culture
Interview with George Burdi: Man Against the Modern World
Mihai Eminescu: Romania’s Morning Star
“He Doesn’t Worry Too Much If Mediocre People Get Killed in Wars and Such” Tito Perdue’s The Smut Book & Cynosura
Jalal El-Kadali’s Oyster Mountain
If White Privileges Were Real
Remembering Rudyard Kipling (December 30, 1865-January 18, 1936)
The Plymouth 400 SymposiumRobert Frost’s “Directive”: A Quintessential Yankee Poem by New England’s Quintessential Yankee Poet