The nourishment of the illegals is at hand, the Karen Read trial proves it, you can hand feed the test feed of media bits and let it hang, you can dance as if it matters, you can hang your jaw over the words for your own purposes and pretend it’s for Passover and remain invisible? What difference does it make?

The ravishing of the system is at stake, the white faces of the defendants are at hand, the Donald Trump trial challenges it, you can hand test the offspring for proof of the ravening and the lusting, what of it? What of it with the great grey lull of power gnarling over it all? 

You can challenge it, is all. You can imagine it all in power, all invited to lust within, all incited to yearn with invertebrate longing of grand glow and globs of deep glow.  It won’t matter at all. It won’t and it can’t. The sun will shine, the rocks will glow.  You’ll be fine, or you will die. Thank Jesus for that one. Thank someone, for Chrissakes.

There are cuffs sticking too far out of suit jackets, muted floral print dresses that have not been worn in a short while, and murmuring about causes and effects. Now and then, an out of place laugh.

Someone steps up and speaks to the now-seated mourners. All the well-styled messages, all the bowed heads; then the getting up to go home or to the reception hall to set up the ham sandwiches and coffee, while others go on to the cemetery to check off that detail of obligation.

Somewhere else is someone else who, still ignorant of the event, is working, sleeping, fucking, fighting, or flying home to where they’ll get the news of the Passing once they’ve landed.

They will tell everyone they wish they could have been there.  

In private, once they are alone or flying back, they will be glad they were not. They no longer have the right clothes for that kind of event. The right taste in catering, or in God-talk.