second blood heelers the mission

 

There is a little known dive bar in a side street near Pennsylvania Avenue improbably close to the pulsing heart of American power in Washington DC.

The place is earthy but discreet.

The world weary clientele knows when to look the other way.

At the bar a striking male figure, knocking back whiskey sours, attracts little attention.

President Donald Trump, for it is he, mutters to himself: "What in heaven possessed God to make a man like Mark Steyn?"

He is referring to an internet commentator who formerly championed Mr Trump but has now turned Turk on him over the Iran war just as he had earlier turned Turk on President Bush in order to facilitate Mr Trump's own accession to the Presidency.

A jaunty Richard Crenna like voice rings out from across the bar.

"God didn't make Mark Steyn. I did."

President Trump looks up to see James Healy played by Richard Crenna, standing behind him.

"You? How did you make him?"

"Well he stole a quite sublime joke referencing Sunset Boulevard from my blog. I mean this was really top class stuff, Trumper. The original had me being told by an acquaintance that my mild mannered critiques of the dysfuncts in Islamic culture had cost me readers, 'You used to be big,' the person says. And I reply: 'I'm still big. It's the internet got small.' Steyn thought that it was so funny that he used it with himself in the Gloria Swanson role. You have to admire his taste. And as if that wasn't enough he then started plagiarising neologisms from my website, to wit the words maunderings and moronification which had gilded my more serious cultural analyses and were considered by some to be the finest additions to the English language in half a century."

"By some?"

"Me n the dogs n the budgie n the parrot like em."

"That hardly amounts to you making him," ventured President Trump delicately.

"Well they were lynchpin moments in his career," answered me peevishly, downing a Furstenberg snakebite.

"Why is he attacking me ?" asked President Trump.

"Could be a whim," sez I. "The internet loves clicks. Could be principle. I thought he was a man of principle. I'm normally right about these things. It could be his judgement has gone a bit off. Sometimes even great Homer nods as they say in the staff room at the Simpsons cartoon. The one thing I wouldn't like would be if someone had got to him. You know he was a man of influence so he was certainly a target for even State actors but also none State actors among the Jihadis and elsewhere. And they're not short of money, resources or spite. Vexatious entities at least twice have tried to destroy him through the courts and that didn't work. Maybe some of them infiltrated someone into his entourage who's been slipping Steyn the occasional amphetemine without his knowledge. His writing goes haywire and Steyn never even suspects he's a junkey. It's a nifty way to destroy a person. And you save money on the assassins bullet.  There's people who do those sorts of things Mr President. I've met them."

"It sounds a bit far fetched to me."

"Things happen to people of influence Mr President. Breitbart is conveniently dead. Jordan Peterson is prey to endless medical issues and is out of the ball game. And Steyn's gone doolally. Either someone's got to him or I was wrong about him being a decent man in the first place. Now which of those is most likely?"

"So what do I do about him?" wondered the Prez wearily.

"Leave him alone," advised James. "He's wandering around Ukraine at the moment trying to undermine their war effort. His internet site has haemhorraged readers since he started trying to come up with  his own neologisms. The closest he got was sodbollocking. I ask you.  Ho hum. Leave him alone. That's my advice. If the Ukrainians don't kill him, you'll find him working at a garage in Montana in a few months time and you can arrest him then quietly with no trouble. The worst thing you could do is confront him. If you confront him, you'd better bring a lot of body bags, I mean legal writs for plagiarism and ear muffs to drown out his endless wearisome iterations of sodbollocking."

kilcullen easter

 

the lambing time

evanescent leaves

provincial poets stitching worn out rhymes

into patchwork quilted semaphores of praise

all of these

mist like matting on muddy fields

old men rejoicing in  campaniles

heart breaking heart mending threnodies

everything that breathes is on its knees

for the coming of the lord

peace

heelers agonistes

 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, racked by pain.

My eyes turn to a photo of a tree hung on the wall.

The photo was taken by an aunt.

Sometimes when I look at it the pain ebbs a bit.

So it is today.

As the pain ebbs I feel an intimation.

My pain is caused by resentment.

"Oh for heavens sake God," I cry aloud, " if that's the case, I won't be able to write anything."

In my heart, I imagine I hear God replying: "Do you want to write anything or do you want to walk?"