Music of Democracy (a poem)

dance in the street, move to the music

of democracy – our long national nightmare

is over, we’ve been chopped to pieces

by a man filled with grievances –

we’re hoping he fades away

locked in his gilded towers

removed from power

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Wormwood (flash fiction)

The gods often come in disguise. I know this, I know it all too well. But I forget sometimes. The slick salesman didn’t look like a god – far from it. He was a wheeler-and-dealer, a card shark. He told me so.

Jet-black hair slicked back, greasy with gel. White dress shirt, dark red tie that screamed “power!” and “too much testosterone!” What a bore this guy was. He tried to sell me a used car, something that wouldn’t get me very far, one that would creak, moan, die by the side of the road.

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