Republicans Mean to Kill You

I will be the unpopular voice in the room. We’re dealing with psychopaths who will NEVER respect anyone else, listen to reason, or consider logic that doesn’t work in their favor.

“Violence” is what perpetrators do. It’s why we have police and military, to protect us against violent people.

“Force,” even deadly force, is what we use to stop violence against ourselves, our families, neighbors, and our country.

What happens when the people at the highest levels of government are themselves violent, selfish, and sociopathic?

When the politicians who are supposed to represent you have no respect for human rights, the Constitution, due process, habeas corpus, or the law of the land?

What then?

Do we roll over and refuse to protect ourselves? Do we refuse to defend our neighbors, families, children, livelihoods, freedoms, or nation?

Do we erroneously cling to our failure to distinguish between force and violence?

We are like children who, having never seen a chicken killed and plucked, sit at the table and eat, calling it delicious.

But upon witnessing the act of killing the bird, we recoil in horror, chastising the one who did the deed, calling them a brute.

But when they stop, and there is no fresh fried chicken on the table for our supper, we moan and complain.

The people of Ukraine, civilians, immediately began training in military tactics when they learned that Russia was preparing to invade.

The United States of America is a nation born of rebellion. It was not a “violent” revolution, but a courageous act of self-defense.

The Founders knew King George was a tyrant and cared nothing for their welfare. They knew that no one would come along and save them.

They knew that if they did not stand for themselves, no one would stand for them, and they would be ground beneath the boot heel of tyranny.

The courts are buying you some time. However, that’s the extent of their power. The time they are buying you is time you are wasting.

The reason the regime is not making more fuss about the “losses” in court is simple:

They have already won the biggest court battle, but they did so without technically winning.

They know they don’t have to return anyone from El Salvador because no one will make them do it.

They don’t have to stop abducting people off the streets, even full citizens, because no one is going to force them to stop.

You are dealing with sociopaths. They are the equivalent of serial killers in three-piece suits.
They only speak the language of violence.

They only respond to the language of force.
Continuing to state your case verbally is ridiculous. They already know they’re wrong; they DON’T CARE.

We already know they are wrong; we don’t need to hear it seven hundred sixty-three times.

The only people who can save the American people are the American people.

If you need a model, use the neighborhood watch of Lincoln Heights, OH. They understood the assignment.

They are the Black community, and they have never been able to naively expect that someone in uniform, or an expensive suit, would come along and protect them.

Like the people of Ukraine, they knew they must stand for themselves.

Despite being the “more educated” party, Liberals, Democrats, and Progressives seem to be woefully ignorant of history.

Our present moment is NOT parallel to the Civil Rights movement.

The beautiful strategies of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and Mahatma Gandhi are impractical in this current state of American affairs.

The opposite of the Civil Rights movement was merely preserving the status quo.

It wasn’t about the total subjugation of every single American citizen who is not already a billionaire.

Therefore, it is not accurate or wise to assume that “non-violent” forms of protest will protect the people of this country from a violent dictator.

We have already witnessed them snatching people off the streets and sending them to foreign prisons, where standards are well outside the acceptable standards of the Geneva Conventions.

Then, we witnessed two dictators sit in the Oval Office and laugh at all of us. They cracked jokes about “homegrown criminals.”

Each of them smirking as they said, “I can’t do anything about it. Can you?” And the other responds, “Who, me? No. I don’t have the power to do that!”

They’re mocking you because you allow them to.

They’re the schoolyard bullies who never learn. That is, they don’t learn until some new kid they pick on turns out to be tougher than they are, and unwilling to put up with them.

When that new kid thoroughly whips their punk asses, they slink back under the rocks they crawled out from beneath.

But they will not retreat one single moment sooner than that. Bullies must always be physically put in their place.

The only exception is when a strong disciplinarian teacher or principal steps in and ends the conflict.

But our Congress, Supreme Court, State governors, and most of our mayors have proven that they are not up to the job.

We need wartime leadership, leaders who are willing to take bold steps, such as calling out the National Guard to deter ICE, instructing State Police to protect every citizen and legal immigrant, or face termination.

Steps are needed such as governors and mayors allowing and encouraging citizens to organize neighborhood watch groups like the one in Lincoln Heights, Ohio.⠀

Local officials should not only be encouraging this, they should be funding it and overseeing training, by bringing in former military personnel and law enforcement experts.

Such experts can teach citizens how to be safe and proficient with firearms, and how to de-escalate conflicts when possible.

But they can also teach them how to use force when necessary, using the least drastic measures necessary.

I consider it absolutely essential that we be greatly expanding access to trauma first aid courses, such as TECC. That’s Tactical Emergency Casualty Care.

If citizens don’t end up shooting someone who they view as a kidnapper, then certainly we still run the risk that one of these fake, cosplay ICE agents ends up seriously harming someone through their complete lack of training, experience, or integrity.

There should be at least one person on every city block who is certified in trauma medicine, or at least familiar with it.

The alternative is not pretty, citizenry, full of pure, unbridled rage, rising up in small, unofficial vigilante groups and causing chaos and destruction.

It’s only a matter of time before this occurs. Setting up a series of dominoes in a line and tipping the first one denotes a predictable outcome, not a wildly speculative slippery slope fallacy. Seeing how such events will soon begin to take shape is merely common sense.

Local governments could easily take genuinely effective action by channeling the rage of the people into effective safe training of local militias, instilling in them the sense of duty that would constrain them against making rash decisions. 

But someone must stand. The courts are doing their best, but they have no real teeth.


However, Democrats will likely not take the initiative and do these things. I expect no such bravery from any of them.

So, I beseech each and every person who stands against this tyrannical fascist regime to do it themselves.

Be safe. Be responsible. But be fearless and be determined.

Responsible citizenship behooves us to be proactive and protect our neighbors, our communities, and our freedoms.


The sycophants in Congress are loving their new levels of power, as well as the occasional extreme profits of the president’s insider trading schemes. They will not budge from their shyster positions of extreme privilege. 

Nothing about this regime’s actions over the last hundred days says “respect for democracy and democratic freedoms.” 

To believe that they will take away your due process and rob you of your right of habeas corpus, but that they will allow you to have free and fair elections is the height of naïveté. 

To think that they will illegally pitch autos on the White House lawn, but will not rig elections is dumb.

You are watching them offer influence over US government decisions to foreign nationals through contributions to an illegal bitcoin account. To think they are not planning to jail anyone who speaks out is just plain stupid. 

They’re already in the process of rigging future elections, so they will appear to have integrity on the surface, but will have nothing underneath. 

If you cannot bring yourself to believe this, then either you are gullible, or the president truly is 6’ 3” tall. 

The military is bound by oath not to interfere in civilian politics, even when the politicians are trampling on the Constitution. 

Unless the military forgets their oath, unless they fire on the people or unlawfully arrest them,  then they are the only blameless party in all of this, so far.

Every train of thought leads 

Until you stand for yourself, America, your situation will deteriorate daily. 

I repeat, why would they take away your rights of due process and habeas corpus, unless they intend to subject you to terrible things? 

Hay Day

I tasted your harvest
Held you in the fall
I heard the strange changes
Saw no one at all

The tea leaves aren’t telling
The wax drips no words
The chords are atonal;
They’re not stacked in thirds

Hey, hey, hey
Play in the hay day
Swallow the bruises
The pain goes away

Hey, hey, hey
Today is a school day;
Just as tomorrow,
And every other day, too

Wheels will slow down,
And hammers go fall
The chains all fall off
There’s no reason to call

A mouth slams shut
For lack of a solver
Birdcage flies open
A willful revolver

Hey, hey, hey
Make rain on a sun day
All the swallows got bruises
A rose fades away

Hey, hey, hey
Today is a school day;
Just as tomorrow,
And every other day, too

I screamed at the empty
You clawed at the door
We kindled a fire
And burned out the floor

Pleading with empty
We gnawed a bit more
We ate the inferno
Lost sight of the score

There’s always more learning
What was already known
Lessons learned again
Are again to be shown


©2025 Kevin Trent Boswell

Little Despot

Empty-headed blood scepter
Rails on about rights and privileges

But the angel-faced baboon
Will have none of it

Garrison bone hides
Rancid jowls in its ivory jar

Circus clown juggler
Tilts at the mills of wind,
Falls of water, and the
Endless static screen

Burn all that useless crap
In the trash barrel
Out back

Reach in the candy dish
And pull out a fresh squid

This tiny line of chalk
Guides the anchor to its resting place

Cranial trauma
This, too, shall never pass

But the not-subsiding
Should subside
Within a few thousand years or so

Your head only hurts because
We’ve removed it;
Imminent domain

The lumpy piece of flesh
That used to be inside of it
Is now an air freshener
Hanging from the rear view mirror
In the Devil’s Cadillac

He says it reminds him of home

One last thing,

Please sign here:

—————————————————


©2025 Kevin Trent Boswell

encroaching

that taste
will not always
haunt the lips

or will it?

it is certain that
other hungers
will swarm the palate
and strangle
the familiar flavor

or is it?

the trail is littered
with the swollen corpses
of fabled monsters
and brittle heroes

the valley is cursed
and the sky is burnt

hedgerows of thorn bushes
quietly weep blood
in the shadows

they sing mournful songs
of blistered eyes,
salted fields full of silk roses,
wolfsbane and hellebore,
the broken teeth of clockwork dolls,
and a thousand crushed hearts
of little bluebirds
overflowing from the
mortar and pestle

beckoning mirage,
a courtyard fountain
that sprays only gossip,
a wishing well
of screaming sad sirens,
hungry to drown
all careless passersby

my history’s pages
are all made of dust

the cap is of old tile,
the gown is a shroud,
and the tassels are all
desiccated worms

guts of tapioca
and bones of papier-mâché

any junior scout
with a compass and a crayon
could’ve easily mapped out
my imminent demise

it would have
saved a great deal
of yet more useless time
had I set my fool’s course
directly for the rocks,
instead taking such
a circuitous route

surely, this was
how I stumbled;
once, at least

craving the honorifics
of a conqueror,
a king

chasing wispy legends,
a haunted city of gold
that lay in the heart
of an untamed jungle
on a remote little island
only rumored to exist

a gnarled patch of land
that only surged up
from deep ocean trenches
in the craven imaginings
of a syphilitic madman

a derelict scoundrel
who scrawled dark heresies
onto pages of black dust
in an ink made from octopus,
the dried blood of
slaughtered griffins,
slain wyverns,
and fallen angels

an El Dorado of oblivion,
always just over the horizon
swelling in the overheated
cranium of a lunatic
drunk on malaria
and a dry, bitter wine
made from red poison berries

any wobbly toddler
could have rightfully discerned
that it was only a cruel game of
peek-a-boo and goodbye

the face keeps disappearing,
disappointing, disapproving,
and daily disavowing

and never allowing
deeper mysteries
to be known

any toy soldier could have
made short work
of my defenses

the walls of my fortress
were destined to fail
and crumble
and be swallowed up
by the ruthless, ever-empty,
ceaseless cravings
of jaws that lust
for everything
and nothing

any busted clock
could have
told the tale
of how I was
out of time
before I ever
began

of how I would,
without doubt,
be swept from the decks
of the good ship of memory,
into the raging sea

it has always been a given,
that I would be erased
from the blackboard of thought,
and cast out of
the picture

it was always
understood,
a given,
a known

or was it?


©2025 Kevin Trent Boswell

Downstream

The merciful tyrant
Unwittingly enslaves himself
Head chained to a stone,
A fraction of an inch
Above the grinding wheel

Sweat pours off the brow,
Enough to fill an empty chalice,
The kind of cup that one might
Craft by hand, and set apart
Solely for use in special feasts,
Feasts that never took place
Except in the mind

A mind that now rots
Inside a bone cell,
Cuffed by steel bands
To a stone tablet,
Where it struggles to
Hold itself up,
Away from the wheel,
Less than a tired wink of sleep
Below

How it all occurred is
A promethean comedy of errors

An artificial notion became planning;
Plans inched stealthily forward,
Advancing toward schemes,
Where the schemes beget a clusterfuck,
And the clusterfuck exploded
Into a bucket of shit and
A bathtub of tears

I have wasted the infinite scream

That spectacular spectacle
Of standing above the relenting chasm,
In the assumption of a god form
And a triumphant rush of endorphins

Being full of such arrogance
As to declare oneself a great thing

It is but the backsplash
Of crashing waves,
The backdraft of a conflagration,
The hammer claw that slips carelessly
Off of the head of the nail, and
Slaps back hard into the face of
The one who holds the hammer,
The swirlies of high school bullies

Proverbial pissing
Into a primordial storm

Hubris, personified

The Devil laughs hardest
At we mortals
Who merely dabble
In part time blasphemy

He is quick to show us
Who invented the game,
And who we should call “El Jefe”

His pool cue is the stolen staff of Moses

He chalks it with dust
From the tombs of martyrs

He runs the table every time,
Right from the break

Casually leans back and smiles,
Lights a cigarette, and
Does his best Marlon Brando,

“Rack ‘em up, boys. Double or nothin’.”


©2024 Kevin Trent Boswell

Cut It Out

Cut it out of the sternum
And place it on the altar

I no longer want it,
This bitter heart
In my mouth

A locked chest full of feathers,
Little lockets and silvery trinkets,
Walking sticks and reeds of bamboo,
Straps of leather and heavy chains,
Strange wires and clockworks,
Flowers of unusual, grand, noble gestures,
The teeth of pirates, the entrails of kings,
And the bones of beached sharks,
Now too frail to feed

The carpet needed
A little splash
Of red, anyway

You know, just a little something extra
To accent the curtains

The dusk and the music box
Both wait in the corner
To spit fire and agony
Into the flesh of the evening

Surrender to the waves

The waves were always wiser

They always kept moving,
Never weighing themselves down

Fight off all of those
Ridiculous impulses,
Provocateur pushes
To the edge of another,
Another one of those nothings,
Exactly like all the ones
That come night after night

Resist the pulse,
The catalyst incentives
To do yet more stupid things,
Stupid things like breathing

Sew this dumb mouth shut
With a spool of black thread
Stolen from the undertaker’s
Trench coat pocket

Do it before all of those sounds
Escape

All those sweet, garbled mysteries
That fell into it while I was drunk
On her flesh

And still foolish enough
To believe I was alive

Capture them in stitches
With the Devil’s dried-up veins
And a needle of blackthorn

Line the casket with
Old newspapers

And line the birdcage
With red silk

Pour me a bowl of stone gravel
And a ladleful of sour milk

Plug my ears with wax,
While they are still full
Of her laughter

The ancient cathedral
Has more than enough novenas,
And indeed, the blind priest,
He will not miss just one

Pull out these bloody eyes
With spoons made for ice cream

And press them both tightly
Between the pages
Of an old book of secrets

Here, they’ll be safe,
And spared the pain
Of seeing

Stuff the eye sockets full
Of meaningless words

Wrap it all up, and
Place it all in a box
A box made of yew,
And cedar and cypress

Then, nail it shut with
Rail spikes of iron,
Hammer them in tightly
With the skull of a ram

Stretch it over completely
With the skin of my body
Pull it good and tight,
As taught as the head
Of a plaintive dirge drum

Place the whole lot of it
In the hole and cover it over
With a shovelful of mourning
And a fistful of yesterdays

They’re far superior to these
Rubrics of today’s fabrications and
Tomorrow’s rumors of
Trial-and-error pleasures

But sing to it softly,
As you cover it with fresh earth,
So it will feel less alone
As it communes in silence
With all the roots and rocks beneath

The gris-gris is not sealed
Until you etch the proper glyphs
Into the tablet of lead, and you
Speak the words over it, and then
Place it in the ground

But miss nothing about this,
It is not buried treasure
Make no maps, no monuments,
No markings on the calendar

It is only a sarcophagus,
The coffin of a scorpion
Who dreamed itself once
A bright pharaoh of the valley
But awoke screaming in the night
To the songs of its madness
And it crawled into itself
And there, ever, it remained

Listen now to the kettle,
How it raves and howls,
How it steals hot kisses
From the streetlights below,
And thumbs its raised nose
At wandering ghouls

There will be no snow this winter,
Only weeping glaciers

And the sea will be taking
Its out-of-time cues
From the heartless sun
Who is thankful for itself

The ferryman waits for me,
On the bank of the morning

His oar is readied
And impatiently thumping

It is time to go


©2024 Kevin Trent Boswell