is interlocking, like tectonic plates,
such as the mob’s deal with the FBI
in WW2, among our many streets
above us in concentric traceries:
Atlantis, City of the Locks & Rings.
The Hypostasis of the Oligarchs
binds its expression in antithesis --
ants clamoring for their inheritance
in the twilight, in the musk of night’s sight --
and elections are her hurricanes and
between this foolishness the Parties part
their parts: the whole tamale’s shimmering
shebang. One cannot see the spider for
the web; the failing eyes of proud men do
not see the garden for its hedgerows. For
our sight is failing in the labyrinth
in sight of crumbling castles at low tide.
We’re crumbling at low tide together now
as bitterness gives way to enemies.
The Hypostasis of the Archons
is a mixing pot of paint; and in a
petri dish it pullulates, beyond us
yonder, ineluctable. Five hundred
page encomiums to statecraft add up
to an iterative governance not taught
in civics courses; where one is not taught
about the Law of Conservation of the Ruled.
The Hypostasis of the Oligarchs
is Apparatchiks, Fat Cats, Princelings, Cent Familles,
what have you. Very little, likely. Long
before we dreamt of freedom at our desks,
before us, merciless & mad
it woke us where it wanted us; & we
were seldom able to insert an act
in edgewise. Freedom: cotton pickers hand
out happy meals to hands from minivans
emerging, urging on the powerful
like bathtub rings. “…the more they stay the same”
A bathtub ring is real! It has a heft of sorts.
But informed citizens are leprechauns,
and I am sick! of informed leprechauns.
And informed leprechauns are sick of me.
