I knew to watch Trump’s speech. He rallied a goon-army over weeks, assembled them to break democracy, to begin his coup. I wanted to hear his call to the wreckage myself, hoping their lawlessness would be his undoing and set his brand up for the incinerator of failed machinery. They played “Macho Man” twice — their bugle charge.

This is history and I like to face it — pay close attention, to know thy enemy, especially since they are now stitched into the fabric of our daily lives and interactions.

It was obvious his confederacy of dunces was at a…

James Hunter

OG Seattleite photographer, poet, and publisher now living in the oceanic estuary of a North Florida preserve. Art City Books & Ghost Forests = passion projects

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