Ah. The silver-tongued rhetorician that is our Vice President strikes again, weaving airy word dream sequences out of the vacuum space between her ears. Sculpted from vaporous threads of gossamer fragments wisping about her nearly empty brain housing group, sentences somehow coalesce as the threads are flushed free with the sound of wind rushing through her aural orifices.
Poetry emerges. Her own special kind of ode to the generation whose stream-of-consciousness mutterings and psychedelic ravings were thought to be deep and inspiring, once upon a long, long time ago.
Even if the free-form poets waved pretty hands and gestured to the stars waxing, wide-eyed, about truth, there were cruel, privileged, smarter people who were not stoned. And who pointed out it was all gibberish.
And that the poets never carried a single burden, to begin with, but were them.
But no matter.
It was a…
