art, culture, politics, democracy

Category: Commentary

Poor king CO MA DI cried

Poor king CO MA DI, slyly, with a Cheshire smile that assures himself we can’t possibly be on to him, vainly tries to place himself beyond the past. But, manifesting a noteworthy lack of self recognition, he condemns himself to dwell there.

We imagine him resonantly receding; perhaps loping atop a La Manchan steed, his arms furiously flailing in a vacuous attempt to defame his predecessors. Suddenly his curious costume is snatched by the blade of a wheeling windmill. Away goes Poor king CO MA DI, gracelessly lofted from his regal reverie, up, around, and around, counter clockwise he realizes with a characteristic mixture of anxiety and chagrin. “I must do better at seeing where I am going! How else will I become Emperor?”

As if he had minted the word ungracious, Poor king CO MA DI lingered . . . ‘til the shadows of the doorway barely alighted on their backs as they left the auditorium. He then turned his furrowed face toward confounding the present. “They are all corrupt!” Again with the annoying whine. Attempting to separate himself, as do all pretenders, he fumbles, stumbles, bumbles. “Reminds me of RMN,” someone inaudibly asided.

“Walt Whitman said so!” Poor king mumbles, while numbly succeeding in confounding only himself. He jumps onto the dais. “2.0, 2.0, 2.0!” he chants, as the audience, aghast at seeing the Poor king naked, that is, never expecting such a blatant confirmation of animosity and ineptitude.

“If only I had the right clothes! I would be Emperor!” he screams into the Castilian night. The huge white wheel, as if sensing an irritant attached to itself, whirls faster, its mechanism rumbling, rattling, and convulsing. The ground, the sky, the ground again! “STOP! STOP EVERYTHING I HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH!”

Poor king CO MA DI, the size of the font on his campaign posters proclaiming his intense desire for adequacy, but limited by . . . . well, limited. His extraordinary lack of creativity, his bottomless void, all he can think is to try to eradicate the past, where he alone is sinking, little, by exceedingly little.

Into Divine oblivion, Poor king CO MA DI, your timeworn treadmill keeps rolling, in reverse.



Shape-shifting Nation

. . . . . and so  the little country, seemingly ever smaller as time passed, and once immensely prideful of its emphasis on personal and political freedoms, continued its descent into the bottomless cesspool of abject militarism. Under the auspices of a minority president, whom a miniscule few ever suspected would employ such tactics, gestapo-like squads of quasi-military forces that once were confined to security service in airports, began to roam freely in train and bus stations, metro rails, and sporting events, among other locales. The citizens in these locations could be stopped abruptly and required to have their belongings searched on the whim of these armed units. This physical presence was appended to the surreptitious tapping of nearly all of its citizen’s electronic communications. All of this insidious activity was approved and promoted by unnamed judges in secret security rulings that established that the government of the little nation just didn’t have to explain anything to its citizens that it didn’t feel like explaining . . . . .