The Orient Express

North Korea accuses the CIA of trying to assassinate Kim Jung Un. Maybe so, maybe not. It is just a hop and a skip from the Imperial Palace to downtown Pyongyang, a journey the Dear Leader takes every morning in his sumptuous private railway car. The one car Orient Express, sitting on a siding, steam up, departs at 8 on the dot, and knowing this, the CIA is carefully laying plans to arrange for a nasty accident. I spoke with a CIA covert operative recently, and he said:

Dear Leader takes the train to town
Each morning prompt at eight
Our satellites are looking down
Determining his fate
We’ve paid the porter twenty bucks
To lace his morning tea
We had a whole row full of ducks
But it was not to be
A gandy dancer on the line
Was paid to loosen rails
The rails were loose and all looked fine
But sometimes it all fails
We’re sorry that our brave brainwashed
Dumb agents were detained
And so our accident was quashed
And Dear Leader entrained
Just plain bad luck is what we say
We’re limited in scope
We need to stay out of the way
But we don’t give up hope
We think he’ll hit a girder on
His trip to town, I guess
An accident, not murder on
The Orient Express

The Burning

Western style Communism is an ideology, a religion, and understandable as such. Asian communism is not an ideology, but a route to power and a means to maintain power, and therefore understandable in terms familiar to all for all of history. There is no point in using the term Communist China, because it does not describe their interests and policy, which are indistinguishable from the interests and policy of a Westphalian State. The Soviets were intent on bringing the entire world under the Church of Socialism, with Moscow the Vatican. China has no such ambitions, and therefore can be persuaded to act in ways the Soviets would never have contemplated. To China, Pyongyang is a client, not a parishioner, and as such the Trump administration has a good chance of persuading China to burn Pyongyang.

The difference in the burning is as clear as night and day
The Soviets would burn you but in an auto-da fe
The Chinese on the other hand will smile and say goodbye
As into the big wok you go, an unwilling stir fry
To China the Kim family has been like Kardashian girls
There comes a time to dump them when the controversy swirls
For big guys soon lose patience with the antics and the swoons
When Kim girls get inflated and they speak of ancient runes
That say that they’re queens of heaven and the rulers of the blind
And they have nukes to prove it and will show to the unkind
That quaking, screams and shaking are sweet music to their ears
At which point the Twitter chatters as the big guy’s ire rears
And the Chinese see the bitter dregs at bottom of the cup
And the dancing stops in Pyongyang as they see the jig is up
As the Chinese pile the faggots into mountains to their knees
And the Ronsons and the Bics now made in China light with ease

The Cloak Of Myth

The myth of male oppression, the myth of despotic colonialism and the rape of the third world, the myth of white privilege that accounts for the overwhelming majority of Nobel winners in science being white, the myth of the moral superiority of the Left. All these myths cloak the agenda of the Left, which is the destruction of the American experiment in democracy and its replacement with a permanent leftist governing class.

The European Union with its leftist bureaucrats
That never seek election and are chosen for their charm
In smiling to the rabble whom they view as dogs and cats
Who smell of working on a dung rich farm
The Left holds power in its hand as is their holden right
For they know best as betters always do
They make the laws that fatten them and party every night
And thankful that they’re them and they’re not you

Thoughts On Growing Old

There is no downside to getting old, but there is no upside to being old. And so, as the end approaches, we have only thoughts of what has been and not of what is to be. We wander the empty rooms of our past contemplating the shadows.

Thoughts substantial as the shadows
Thoughts as restless as the wind
Thoughts that cannot come together
Thoughts like butterflies unpinned
Dancing manically to music
Dancing through the waving blooms
Stopping briefly to discover
There is no one in the rooms
That were once filled loud with laughter
Love and joy and flashing eyes
But are silent now and shadowed
Dimly lit by the sunrise
Stealing in the sleepless bedroom
To announce another day
Filled with loneliness and sorrow
That seems not to go away
Thoughts of life at the beginning
Thoughts of years flown like the wind
Thoughts that cannot come together
Dancing butterflies unpinned

A Good First Step

President trump removed a deeply politically compromised Director of the FBI, Jim Comey, and the Left reacted as if Trump had said something derogatory about Josef Stalin. They went bat fecal matter crazy, anointing Comey the latest martyr in Trump’s war against civilization, notwithstanding that the day before the firing the Left considered Comey a piece of vermin and calling for his removal from office and instant immolation. But we expect nothing else from the Democrats. They will do anything and say anything in their attempt to remove a lawfully and fairly elected president they have a completely irrational hatred for from office. They will oppose every nomination, every action and every attempt by Trump to govern, but the firing of Jim Comey was a good first step. And thanks to Harry Reid, President Trump only needs 51 votes to drain the swamp.

If sixty votes you cannot muster
Thank Reid for no more filibuster
If leftist workers can’t be fired
Make sure that they are never hired
Since building big is what you do
Build a big ark and two by two
Show lefty Dems to the gangplanks
And get a grateful nation’s thanks
Get tough and whip your guys in line
Pay no attention when they whine
Talk the talk and talk it straight
Don’t listen to the fourth estate
Full speed ahead, let’s get ‘er done
Remember Austerlitz, the sun
That shines upon the bold, the strong
And carries all the rest along

Telescoping Time And The Infinite Universe

In 1608 a couple of Dutch guys, Jacob Metius and Hans Lippershey, invented the first telescope. Galileo improved it and some sixty years later Isaac Newton, as we might have expected, invented the reflecting telescope. And just recently a group of astronomers built a large array and photographed the black hole at the center of the Milky Way, discovering, to their shocked surprise, that the black hole was filled with stars. They did not explain how the light from the stars inside the black hole escaped over the event horizon, but perhaps that is why they were shocked. In my novel Almost Paradise, each galaxy in our universe has a black hole at its center, and each black hole contains a universe whose every galaxy contains a black hole at its center that contains a universe whose every galaxy contains a black hole that contains a universe, and so on, resulting in an infinite universe, all of it contained inside a notional sphere of energy the size of an electron.. Time is an illusion, but the calendar never lies, and non-illusional time grows short, so I thought I would speak of the infinite universe as I have experience it.

I do not know when first I saw a tree
But when a boy, a maple tree at hand
Became the very first tree that I climbed
So high I held the world at my command
So high, so rarefied the air, so still
I sensed that giant eagles soared nearby
I heard the whispered wind upon their wings
And saw their faces clear against the sky
They circled close and beckoned me to come
So close their wing tips softly brushed my face
I laughed as suddenly I understood
They smiled and gestured, urging me to race
I spread my arms and joined them at their play
As in the biting wind great bronze bells rang
We soared as one, in unison we climbed
While in my soul a golden angel sang
A song whose words told of a wondrous world
That lay below in dancing, shimmered light
With tiny houses anchored to the ground
All spread before me from my leafy height
Eight decades have long passed and sped away
Yet still I hear the eagles’ screaming cries
And in my mind’s eye still I see that tree
For time is telescoped but never dies
The universe is infinite in scale
What passes by our eyes is all we see
Yet what is hidden may be best of all
Like eagles and a magic maple tree

An Open Grave

In December of 1876, the Chancellor of Germany, Otto von Bismarck, was asked if Germany would involve itself in the war then ongoing in the Balkans, and Bismarck replied that the Balkans was not worth the bones of a single Pomeranian grenadier. Today, Syria is not worth the bones of a single American soldier.

The grave is wide, and long and deep
Where tens of thousands lay in sleep
To join the thousands gone before
Why should we wish to add some more?
In Normandy white crosses sweep
To the horizon, where they keep
The memory of what is war
And what it is worth fighting for
A graveyard is the Middle East
Where rats and worms and ravens feast
On what were once young grenadiers
Who lie in watered graves of tears

The Entrails Of A Bird

No one knows anything about how geopolitics works these days because the rules have changed, but the solution is obvious. The Romans never made a critical decision until after the examination of the entrails of a bird to find if the auguries were propitious. I spoke to a bird today and he said he would be happy to give his life if it would help, but cautioned that an augury depended not on the condition of the entrails but on the astuteness of the examiner in determining what the Emperor wanted to hear.

The Norks are building awesome nukes
Of 1940s fissile
To charge the foe like Mamelukes
Atop an early missile
But even so there’s danger there
With luck they might hit something
And so we surely must take care
To never do a dumb thing
Like looking off the other way
As Kim goes sabre rattling
As we believe that on this day
He’s testing a new Gatling
And so the Carl Vinson now
Near by the Nork coast loiters
And looking darn convincin’ now
To both the Times and Reuters
The president has given word
The augury’s propitious
Trump smiles and says the little bird
Says don’t get too ambitious

Memory Is All

Darkness, like death, has no boundaries; it is limitless and unending, without beginning and without end. So too is the darkness of delivered truth, in which there is only one permissible answer, with the stake the reward for heresy. The steady march of the hate-filled religion of progressivism, only briefly and episodically interrupted, continues apace, leading ultimately and inevitably to the darkness of the soul and the extinguishing of the nation.

Darkness is the death of light
The loss of consciousness of sight
The dread of living in the lengthening night
Where memory is all
A nation, too, can into darkness fall
And see the death of its clear shining light
Slow darkened death of what was once so bright
In hands of those who claim they have the right
To say what one may think or may recite
And memory is all
Their truth is written in the living stone
To live in marrow and in bone
No opposition will those truths condone
Redress a darkened pall
We have what’s left of what was once before
When men could choose from either or
With freedom dying on a lonely shore
And memory is all

There’s Something In The Trees

Fear comes in many guises. There is groundless fear, and then there is the grinding fear that something terrible is hiding in he trees.  The unfounded fear that Nork artillery could destroy Seoul and kill hundreds of thousands of civilians in the first few hours of war is absurd. An account of the Battle of Berlin, mid-April 1945 to capitulation in May, tells of the siege of Berlin by three Soviet army groups that continuously bombarded Berlin with 8,000 artillery tubes, augmented by fire from several thousand tanks. Above the city, thousands of bombers from three Soviet Air armies flew lazy eight bombing runs. When it was over, and the casualties counted up, after a solid month of incessant shelling and bombing of a city swollen with refugees, the final post-war tally was about 10,000 civilians killed. The North Korean artillery threat is a Potemkin village. When the first shells fall on Seoul the population will head for shelters and survive, as did the vast majority of Berliners in 1945. The North Koreans must know this, and they also must know that carrier battle groups beyond the horizon, bombers on Guam and tactical air based in South Korea constitute more than just something in the trees.

Full hidden in the vasty deep
Deck full of folded wings
So still she seems to be asleep
But cruel iron death she brings
On Guam the B2s stealthy climb
Into the glistened air
As silent as a painted mime
For all to know they’re there
The trees are full of hidden death
Of horror, sudden pain
At night the trees, as in Macbeth
Will come to Dunsinane