It is now 1.20 a.m. I wish I could stay up into the small hours to watch the results come in. But I have to get up early (7.30 is early by my standards) and I don't want to be exhausted going in to teach my weekly poetry workshop in the IWC on Parnell Square. Exit polls look VERY promising so far.
Lest we forget, here are the (slightly tweaked) words of that anonymous "senior advisor", speaking from the midst of Fortress W, reconstituted as a 'found poem' (or a lost one):
REVISION FOR A SENIOR ADVISOR
We're an empire now and then.
We acted.
We created our own
reality
and while you were studying that
reality,
judiciously,
as you will,
we mislaid the second act
to create other new
realities, which you
could study too.
Tomorrow, things will be different. America (and thereby the rest of us) will have a new reality. One of those horribly vague, politician-friendly abstract nouns, Hope, has become something small and real: a sweaty palm, with two fingers strained into an X.
