It’s Come to This   I don’t want to think about him — no, not anymore, not ever, this soul-dead man whose sole success on earth is that he got   our attention, turned us all into fans, addicts who can’t turn away from the spectacle, the slapstick and pratfalls, the branding   seared into all our sacred cows. Wreck everything — we’ll watch. We’ve all gone to pot, all got those two little holes in the neck.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont January 2019