Every day and from every corner,
comes the same drumbeat:
from the pedigreed and tassel-loafered folk of the lame-stream media,
to the look-at-me glitter-unicorns of the influencer Tikiverse,
the life-tenured of the House & Senate,
not to mention the Courts,
the not-unimpeachable Gilt President from the land of golden … things,
and Ohio footboy who carries his water,
the coke-fueled, ravenous, self-proclaimed
Masters of the Universe
on The Street where there is no Wall,
the wild-eyed zealots on the street where blood there is;
left coast mogul psychonauts
who clan together by polycule,
rule from super-yachts, and
vacation by rocketship
because this tiny world is just too small to hold them;
a veritable sea of NGOs and NFPs
and agencies and shell corporations,
not all of them led by clergy
but oh-so-many fully-committed to the unholy trinity of
MAMMON, MOLOCH, and MARS,
the NRA being merely #9231 on the roster between the AAA and the ZZZ—
but each of them beating their own drum,
serendipitously in-time and on-message with all the others:
‘KUM · BA · YA!’
‘KUM · BA · YA!’
‘KUM · BA · YA!’
Or, maybe it’s the opposite of that.
It’s hard to tell,
with all the drumming.