The sky erupts in rabid, bright-green shrieking,
A bedlam which can only mean that harpies,
Descending on the prey they’ve long been seeking,
Have come to rend him to his very car-keys
Right here (of course) in Target’s parking lot.
But first”he heard this in some softer universe”
They’re going to drive him mad, bereft of thought;
For what’s that caterwaul, if not God’s curse?
And then, ah, mimesis, your name is parrot!
He sees the tiny, arcing flocks that croak
Across his line of sight, sees how they share it
At no expense, the raucous cosmic joke
In which they wink above, as he trails after
And watches fates fly off, to sounds like laughter.
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
War abroad. Socialists on the rise. AI upending human life. Endless uproar online. The modern attention economy doesn’t want readers — it wants users enslaved to the tyranny of the present.
First Things is the antidote: literary excellence, timeless truths, and a fixed point of reference in a culture that has lost its bearings.
But we can’t do it without readers like you.
Our goal: Raise $150,000 by November 1 to sustain First Things in the year ahead.
Your gift anchors readers in the permanent things.
Make your Fall Campaign gift now using the button below.
If you have any questions or would like more information, please contact Giovanni Del Piero, Director of the Editor’s Circle, at gdelpiero@firstthings.com or 212-627-1985.
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