he would fight until they killed him-- Scott J Holliday, Normal
How avidly this barely typing dowager used to read, even now, in her mildly frigid tremors and soils to be coped with, probably forever in these frail encroaching years, which have finally felled Stanley Plumly, one of the few poets I felt compelled to explore since my ouster from the MFA farming system, I am a woman of action. If Notre Dame Cathedral burns, then we must do something, punish someone, even in the realization that ancient relics are frail themselves, I cannot accept that this fire was the result of construction crew carelessness, and in my sin of extracting vengeance, I cling to the refrain from every Catholic service inviting tranquility.
Peace be with you.
And also with you.
But I am not a woman of peace shrunken to convulsions of her colon making her little better than Ezra Pound singing his madness behind bars. No. I do not need any more of my rhetorical flourishes being forwarded to the FBI by disability centers, so I stop short of simplistic threats toward Llhan Omar, but make no mistake about how exacting I would be if I had the executive authority: I'd not only strip her of her elected office, nullifying her supporters in Minneapolis, I'd also strip her of her citizenship, forcibly return her and her family to Somalia. These are the sins of your ferocious Catholic atheist, who like Lucifer, rebels against divine will for the right reasons.
Notre Dame
Notre Dame, I grieve to glory most high. Macron had better have a salient explanation for the Catholic public at large. He needs a very credible spin. I am reading Holliday's novel. Its rapid pace belies its historical context. It's protagonist, a complicated freak, one who would have been right at home in the gallows of Jean Valjean's prison quarry.
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