If a man loads his musket and takes to the street he is hilariously out of date and dangerously outgunned even if the street is unarmed. Someone’s mouth is a musket waiting for gunpowder whiskey and the right word of a bullet. The finger pressed to chest says bitch before the mouth has a chance to and someone’s going to open up tonight. I tell my friend that’s some primitive shit. He says I need to understand what? has been the last straw more often than any cuss word; bitch can be ignored, while the response to it: WHAT? cannot. It’s a warning shot. What says I heard you, I’ll fuck you up if you say it again, and you have no choice but to say that shit again. What could be an honest question but it probably is not. What does that say about context? When my man asks, What if I get my shotgun out the trunk? No one means what they said anymore. Bitch has been taken suddenly out of context. What one meant to say was excuse me, my brother, there is an issue that we, being civilized folk, should calmly talk about before the muskets come back out.
Head Home Already (HHA)
We are an organization founded for the purpose of aiding white nationalists in preserving European culture. Our primary aim is the mass deportation of Anglo Immigrants and their descendants back to their European countries of origin. Originally a colonialism-focused historical society, our private meetings, reading groups, and discussions led to a realization that pan-European nationalist groups like the Identarians of Europe and Proud Boys of the United States might be on to something. European culture is a rich pool of diverse art and science but has been diluted by the misguided attempts of first nation peoples and descendants of slaves to host colonists and keep them alive. We think they should have encouraged the ships to turn around. Surely, these adventurers could have made their fortunes and built their new world back in the lands they came from just as easily as they have done here.
Election Year
And so it was decided, The old kings would become The new kings. Rebuild their castles After burning them down. A singer will tune his lute to the pitch Of a gate opening, sing of rebellion, As the new laws are inked on the back Of the old and the new priests, who were The old priests, spark their braziers of dust And dazzle with blue flame in the temple Of the old gods. And the old gods Will be pulled from their plinths and burned And erected. The temple will gleam White on its hill. The whinny Of destriers, hooves tearing soil, peasants In the streets—always the peasants Choking off the streets and chanting For bread! and bread! — But the new kings, Much like the old kings, will only hear The sound of their own names Rising above the clamor.
Something Had To Be Done
And it worked. The box held the wings And the girl barely noticed the nubs rising From where her shoulder blades curved in. Placed under a bed, the box caused Hardly any dreams, though the clatter of it Against the floor was described as unbearable For a time. The burden passed From one generation to another Until eventually all forgot what was inside. But what matters is that it worked. The clasp held, and no one noticed How empty the sky had become.
For more from the Fall 2022 special issue of MQR, “Fractured Union: American Democracy on the Brink,” you can purchase the issue here.
