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By ann summers
A melange of mercenaries continue to wheel out the orange Moloch idol for the cult of personality as they now do to keep the Trumptanic afloat.
This past week has featured an interesting intersection of the release of the Michael Wolff Fire and Fury book and the transcripts of the Fusion GPS testimony by Glenn Simpson to the Senate Judiciary committee.
![DS-tTFEXkAANCNt_1_[1]](https://flowersforsocrates.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/01/ds-ttfexkaancnt_1_1.jpg?w=493&h=331)
Trumpists are feeling the pressure, because Lord Dampnut is decompensating, insulting major continents and populations.
Of all those enablers, Trump’s personal lawyer may be the weakest link in the argument that extortion underlies many of the reasons for #TrumpRussia.
And yet these are all signs of desperation as justice closes in on them.
But most of all, the book confirms what is already widely understood — not just that Trump is entirely unfit for the presidency, but that everyone around him knows it. One thread running through “Fire and Fury” is the way relatives, opportunists and officials try to manipulate and manage the president, and how they often fail. As Wolff wrote in a Hollywood Reporter essay based on the book, over the past year, the people around Trump, “all — 100 percent — came to believe he was incapable of functioning in his job.”www.nytimes.com/…
Maybe, at the moment, people in the Trump orbit feel complacent because a year has passed without any epic disaster, unless you count an estimated 1,000 or so deaths in Puerto Rico, which they probably don’t. There’s an old joke, recently cited by Josh Marshall of Talking Points Memo, that describes where we are right now: A guy falls from a 50-story building. As he flies by the 25th floor, someone asks how it’s going. “So far, so good!” he says.
Eventually, we’ll hit the ground, and assuming America survives, there should be a reckoning to dwarf the defenestration of Harvey Weinstein and his fellow ogres.
Trump, Wolff’s reporting shows, has no executive function, no ability to process information or weigh consequences. Expecting him to act in the country’s interest is like demanding that your cat do the dishes. His enablers have no such excuse.
President Donald Trump touted a long list of personal accomplishments in an interview with The Wall Street Journal on Thursday, adding that he gets a lot of false press and has consistently been “successful at everything [he] ever did.”
“And then people say, ‘Oh, is he a smart person?’” he added. “I’m smarter than all of them put together, but they can’t admit it. They had a bad year.”
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by NONA BLYTH CLOUD
There are some people who begin to hear the ticking of the clock louder and louder in their lives, that relentless reminder that death is somewhere up ahead. They study it, try to pry at death’s secrets, and if they are writers, they chronicle it.
Claudia Emerson (1957-2014) wrote a lot of poems with death in them, not in a resigned or a morbid way, but exploring with words her encounters with its many faces, from the bones of a bird to the ending of a marriage, and the cancer treatment which ultimately failed to keep her alive.
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It was first dark when the plow turned it up.
Unsown, it came fleshless, mud-ruddled, nothing
but itself, the tendon’s bored eye threading
a ponderous needle. And yet the pocked fist
of one end dared what was undone
in the strewing, defied the mouth of the hound
that dropped it.
. . . . The whippoorwill began
again its dusk-borne mourning. I had never
seen what urgent wing disembodied
the voice, would fail to recognize its broken
shell or shadow or its feathers strewn
before me. As if afraid of forgetting,
it repeated itself, mindlessly certain.
. . . . . . . . Here.
I threw the bone toward that incessant claiming,
and watched it turned by rote, end over end over end.
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Flowers For Socrates 