Lake of Kari: After WordsworthLike a breeze,
Or sunbeam, over your archive I passed
To a sanctions motion without pause; for ye have left
Your screenshot with me, an insane accord
Of paranoias - massive, and endowed
In their mad viciousness with power as will allow
A gracious, almost might I dare to say,
Virtuous, and profitable, victory.
The problem with Tribe’s otherwise excellent idea is that Dershowitz is far too taken up lately with his bombshell lawsuit against the Martha’s Vineyard public library for not inviting him to give talks there. He plans to take down Chilmark Library and its elderly volunteers, and the prep work alone is exhausting.
Dershowitz has tried to explain the priority he’s placing on his library litigation in a poem addressed to Trump, who he knows he has disappointed.
To Doncasta, On Going to War
Tell me not, Don, I am unkind,
That from the scumm'ry
Of thy black breast and insane mind
To Chilmark Lib. I fly.
True, a new lawsuit now I chase,
'Gainst a modest house where simple books they lend;
For while it once did me embrace
It turned against its one-time friend.
Forgive my harsh inconstancy, belov'd client, Don!
Once I've destroyed the library, and made it shut its door,
I will return to thee, my One,
To defend my Love once more.
I will arise and go now, and go to Ångermanland,
And a vast fortress build there, of rage and madness made;
None else will I have there -- my world will I command
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have my rage there, for rage's wind doth blow,
Blowing from the hearings, from where the RINOs sing;
There Bennie’s all aglimmer, and Jamie's all aglow,
And the transcripts full of Liz’s zings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I see old allies dumping me and smirking more and more;
I know that court awaits me some not too distant day,
I know it in the deep heart’s core.
Is it a foghorn or the wind's
Drone-monotone through a barely open
Sliding door? What is this kindly view for?
The waves slide out from nowhere in the dew:
No horizon. No slow ships from Hamburg Süd.
This powerful narcotic compounded for you --
Flat, pastel, gently pulsing day and night
The tidal foam a self-abasing white
And nothing there to break a terrace nap
And nothing there to take your thoughts, and tap
Their shoulders toward the useless and the old.
Dead passions; thoughts of the dead; all gone cold
While you lie temperate and unconcerned
About the super-earth light years away:
"A world that constantly burns."
The greening of the evening
The cold flat light of night
And the mesmerizing
Tritone thrush in the honeysuckle
Thrill me, and hush me.
Later, sitting in a black chair
Under the thrush
I start to sing