Of Lilliput

They are such tiny people, slipping in your blood stream unperceived as you, crusading, ride the clouds and seas exposing unseen cavities within the noble paragraphs our children read, or did upon the times of innocence. Semites all, they roamed invisible with Moorish wiles through Constitution Hall. We are the ones who still may fight the Saracens beyond the Alps and take no prisoners, the enemy is always with us, always must be killed to save our way of life. Better there than here. The Asian hordes are dead, the swastikas are torn away, the jungles with their bloody footsteps have decayed to grow anew upon old screaming ghosts now silent, yes, too silent underfoot. The Moors are hovering— too small that we may see them; they dive into our brains and steal our mushroom clouds— they thrive on secret plans and planes and black economies that rise from underneath the earth; as dark and slippery as their own skin. What presidential grace bestows this Lilliputian race upon us; just as we were out of enemies, these riders of the sands to test our will, our sons, the peril of our peace, our love... Now we may raise the flag again and sing of bursting carapace above and not of bloated bodies in the cargo space below. Oh no. Unthinkable. ~