Fare thee well in Hell, Dick...

I couldn't let his passing slide past me in history without offering my Eulogy...

A long time ago... Dick Cheney used to be a thing. He actually shot someone in the fucking face and they apologized to him for getting in the way of his bullets... Holy Shit... that is just cool as hell. Some of the shit he did... well, most... not so cool... and I need to not just devolve into a deluge of DICK SUCKS so... I thought I'd compose a poem.... a Dirge? or a Eulogy if you will...

Dearly departed? Doubt it. Duty demands I deliver decorum, but disdain drives my tongue.
Dick: dowry-duke, deskbound despot, deal-drunk, dollar-dazed,
a draper of flags over deficits, a director of dead-eyed departments,
drafting doctrines like deeds of dominion, demanding deference, dispensing dread.

Daily he dictated: deregulate, drill, deny; disguise disaster as defense.
Death-dealing decrees dressed as development, dividends distilled from distance.
District after district dimmed: diners dwindled, doorsteps drowned in debt,
day-laborers dragging dull dinners home, dentists deferred, diapers delayed.
The destitute didn’t need dissertations; they needed dinner.
They decided his design was a direct drive against them.
Devotion dissolved, dignity degraded, discontent detonated. Domestic divide deepened.
Dockhands, drivers, daughters—discarded, derided—declared their disgust.

Dick desired dominion: diagrams of a done world, dotted lines around deserts and deltas,
dreaming he’d dominate the diameter, draw down the daylight, dictate destiny.
But dimension is deep, data drifts, denominators diverge.
You don’t domesticate the dawn, Dick; you don’t draft the edge.
Distance defeats design; the domain is definitionless. Infinity doesn’t do deals.
Your digits, your dashboards, your deadpan briefings—dusty delusions.
When N drives to ∞, your numbers dissolve to din. Decision dies; doubt devours.

Did the King deliver a denial? Didn’t.
Deliberately distant, devoted to letting the demos decide,
he didn’t drag Dick back, didn’t decree, didn’t drown dissent.
He desired people free, so he deferred; he let Dick’s direction display its dead end.
Democracy demanded daylight; Dick demanded darkness. Daylight won.

Don’t demand that I dampen this. Don’t dress this as dignity.
Decades of damage deserve directness.
Dick is down—done, dust, documents deleted, dossiers dumped, dividends denied.
The debt he dealt returns, due and demanding.
I won’t do the delicate dance. I’m done pretending.
I despised him. During those days, he distorted our days, demeaned our dead, divided our doorways.
This is my dispatch, my dragnet of D-words, my deliberate dagger.
Let the dirt drink him. Let the destitute dine.
Let the distance he denied deliver the final decision.


So fuck you one last time... Dick. Fuck you, Dick.