By Clifford Rivera

“An artist’s duty is to reflect the times.”
— Nina Simone

There comes a Wicked Winter, when the appalling site of Wilderness Pines (where each Porcupine tree glistens with limp nooses) is too much to bear, just as Angelic Avengers come sweeping in to outgraft Suburban Abominations. Resurrected Slaves ~ aroused by the setting tsunami ~ leave trails of Lynched Snowmen in our tundra wake.

“You can run-on, for a long time…
Run-on, for a long time…
Run-on, for a long time…

Sooner or Later, gotta cut EEUU d@wn.
Sooner or Later, gotta cut EU d@wn.
Tell ‘em that gods’ gunna cut ‘em d@wn.”

¿Who stalks your every bewitching move toward Hanging Chads and Chinese Lanterns, pregnant with Kamikazes, that sway back and forth, back and forth like Hosts of Debt Collectors eager to teach Y’all crooked posture dances, over and over, until the frozen laundry is plucked from the Barbed Wire and folded neatly into inverted rainbow mantles of Drawer Surrender?