this is a satire of sorts
as I force myself toward pleasure,
and I love this November life
where I run like a train
deeper and deeper
into tunnels of my own making,

over the wind-swept bridges,
I force myself through cold, wet air
through the sedentary, school-less
villages of the old and moneyed classes
into the land of my enemies
conservatives who conserve nothing

this is where hostile witnesses abound
skilled at shaking fists at, digging up dirt on,
secretly spitting at, and being contemptible to
the young

wizened faces study bank statements
share certificates, land deeds,
sqirreled away cash,
untaxed entitlements of all manner and conditions
whilst pretending to drool over the babies of the family
in blatantly false displays of camaraderie
whilst whistling the Horst Wessel Song.
and pretending to get along with people,.