Plague Diary: Not A Post Script By A Long Shot
January 6, 2021
You can live your whole life without thinking twice about the old love on the hill, clad in marble. It bears some marks of age but so do we.
There are Visigoths happy to be Visigoths, to worship a buffoon. I will not think about what happened then, or happens next.
Domes do their duty when they give the sun every chance to bless, a place to glow and a warmth and light we can aspire to.
I completely forget how old I am, along with how old is the love I took for granted as we often do.
Still there’s beauty and science and sometimes truth, but always the fickle cherry blossoms, that every now and then fulfill their promise.
The Confederate Flag
The Confederate flag sings Heritage Not Hate on a scratchy vinyl forty-five with Colonel Sanders singing “Dixie” on the flip side.
The Confederate flag waved over brave men as they died because they were white and conscripted or Black and tried to vote.
The Confederate flag stands for Southern Pride when pride comes from lack of melanin, or books written on magnolia blossoms and read in the light of a full, Grand Dragon moon.
The Confederate flag is the holy cross of Lyncherdom.
The Confederate flag was “politically correct” when it went up in Columbia South Carolina in Nineteen-Sixty-Two, or took up half of Georgia’s in Nineteen-Fifty-Six, and overstayed its day in Mississippi, goddam.
The Confederate flag smiled at Nina Simone’s funeral, dropped n-bombs in the shadow of Mother Emmanuel, makes white men yell “hell ya!” and shake their fists with the self-righteous defiance of the wife beater while their women wave it with lingering lust for the days when a chained Django served their needs.
The Confederate flag performs oral sex on Republican senators.
If you sacrifice a virgin to the Confederate flag it congratulates you for finding one in your family and tells you your first-born son will Take Our Country Back, and Shelby Foote will rise up from the grave to impregnate your little sister.
Robert E. Lee loved him some Confederate flag, till it gave him the clap and he lost his job.
Woodrow Wilson slept with it in the Lincoln Bedroom.
The Confederate flag is innocent until proven guilty, which happened in Eighteen-Sixty-One as each seceding state said Slavery, Slavery, Slavery till it came.
The Confederate flag was never co-opted by violent white supremacist groups; the rebel army itself was a violent white supremacist group.
The Confederate flag is fecal coliform at the barbecue of brotherly love, a neon sign of ignorance hung on porches, trailers, and pick up trucks wherever hatred’s sold at discount rates.
It is the drunken cousin or brother who calls at three a.m. to complain about libtards and elitists and won’t shut up for hours after you’ve put down the phone and walked away.