A soft slush is a-gonna slush
I remember the days when the folk singers said a hard rain was a-gonna fall, and a hard wind was a-gonna blow, and a hard snow was a-gonna snow, and a hard hail was a-gonna ping off'n yer windshield.
It was fun listening to the folk singers tone-deaf imitation of the people among who I was raised.
Punchline Pres. Donald Trump, whose speech apes that of a people he has never lived among, would not rent to and will not hire to sew the cheapest of his ties, is a much better mimic that "Brushy Bill" the Yale folksinger who would have died during his first shift at an auto plant.
Trump sounds scared, all the time. He sounds Christian, and cornered, and confused. He's perfect.
I'm the bartender's son, or I was when I was a little boy, and I grew up knowing that the people among whom I've lived all my life are always good for something.
As the United States unabashedly loses the war in Afghanistan, we are reminded that we can always be used to fight, and, if we have the good sense to die in battle, we can be used as a focal point for the nation's increasingly orgiastic celebration of dead soldiers and live veterans.
And we can drive trucks, and be admission specialists in hospitals, and mop with all manner of mops, and drive a nail straight and true, and we can deliver pizza, and do warehouse work, and we are mighty and mightily underpaid.
And as we leave our sons and daughters blood behind in Afghanistan, we watch Trump start a one-man assault on Twitter, the Iwo Jima of all social media platforms.
He is not afraid, and he shouldn't be because there is no risk of coming home legless or dead. Only metaphorical blood will flow from his metaphorical wounds, reddening the sand of the beachhead as Trump struggles up the word-slick slopes of Mt. Twitterbachi.
"Get out of my way, you drunken Indian," he shouts at the non-white ghost of Ira Hayes. "This is my fight, and I'll win it though I shed many of the best words!"