by William Skink
I like trying to distill big things into succinct packages with words. It’s a poet thing.
So, on the eve of an assassination of a man no American (including me) knew by name until tonight, I offer this, for what it’s worth:
Qassem Soleimani and Franz Ferdinand sitting in a tree
getting locked and loaded for world war III
one silly nation no one speaks out loud
thinks they can rise above the mushroom cloud
