Nov. 22 2009

The CIA-Opus Dei-Illuminati consortium
Doggedly preserved their secret weapon, the umbrella man.
On a day such as this on Dealey Plaza, an umbrella an encumbrance,
Unless used expressly to avoid the sun.
Because the sun was out nearly a half century ago.
An umbrella can shade one from the sun that shone upon Dallas
As it does upon White River on this very day.
The illuminati lights the dark, a light within a tomb, sarcophagus.
An umbrella and a sewing machine make music together.
More than a Lincoln Continental, an umbrella,
And yellow rose petals strewn upon the hood of the Lincoln.
An umbrella fails to contribute to the poetic juxtaposition known today as surrealism.
So much depends upon the juxtaposition of the umbrella to the sewing machine,
Whether positioned across the table but below the machine itself,
Passing through the arch made by the sewing machine,
As if it sought to pass through the needle’s eye, but missed.
Or leant to the side of one of the sewing machine’s iron legs.
So much depends upon the dispersal of yellow roses across the red leather seats of the Lincoln,
Upon which waxen rose petals stick to the body of the car by viscous drying blood.
So much depends upon the trolls assigned the job of doctoring evidence for the Illuminati—
Furtive little troll who does not think about what he does,
Little two-foot troll whose amateur verses lampoon the efforts
Of those who seek to disclose the Illuminati-Opus Dei membership.
Little troll who toys with umbrellas and sewing machines,
who knows next to nothing about surrealism or Dealey Plaza.
It is upon you alone, little troll, that I place the onus.