Somerset is underwater with Dorset little better; however in Minneapolis Ground Zero means ICE, with all eyes on the ground.
On the ground where temperatures are well below zero, yet hundreds have gathered to query the ICE around them.
Key cards are pedaling backwards as best as trumps can. When the rule of the day is: Never Say Sorry.
My father used to say, the only premier who ever said “sorry” was Pericles. Is that true? When was that? What did he say it for? I am sure Mr. Blair once said “sorry”. Sorry, Surrey, Excuse me
Eyes on the ground, wide open, lifeless. I don’t watch violent fantasies any more. The men with helmets on, snouts for noses, protecting themselves against gas and spray. They look like something imagined. Adversaries in a Playstation game, aggressively standing. Toting. Like something Ridley Scott invented. Alien yet anti-alien. Eyes on the ground.
It’s a nurse! A nurse I ask you!
An all- American nice-guy, entitled to the American Dream. Dead can Mr. Pretti dream it? As the ice melts around him, Border Patrol is not made welcome any more. Not welcome in Minneapolis, Minnesota because – without the American Dream, Minnesota has to look elsewhere. We all have to look elsewhere. For something denim-clad with heart. While nurses are gunned down, where will those who care go? Where will we go if we cannot look toward America and Dream?
Trudging through the snow on the way to Shakespeare, I once stopped off at Minneapolis, Minnesota. Over twenty years ago. A friend took me to see The Mall of America. So big, so huge that Dream. It was icy then. But so big so huge the Dream was. It took my breath away. And with Shakespeare so exciting to tap into.
“And in that sleep of death what dreams may come…?”
Dreams of ICE are not dreams at all. The are spikes.
(With respects to Mr. Steppingstone who looks to be my “denim-clad with heart” and who was writing at the same time as me)
1/2/2026