Weary now; even seat-squirming, the audience anticipates the election,
anxious for the next act in American life, hoping it brings catharsis,
for the fool still struts his hour upon the stage.
cannot fall on the Bush years soon enough. The sheer destruction
has been unbearable for those with healthy human consciousness.
We have witnessed the invasion of two countries and the silent,
smirking nod given to the invasion of a third leaving cities
leveled, towns wasted, and lives lost in uncounted thousands.
The economic price we will pay is only just becoming visible through
the rising smoke and ash, while eight years of power-lust and
lawlessness have left our hard-won human liberties buried beneath
the rubble. The scene demands the lonely sound of a cello as we
survey the desolation: "Madness! ... Madness!"
A tale told
by idiots? To be sure! Else why would the ideologues have destroyed
the political vehicle they rode to power? Yet modern American
conservatism, whose faithful, like poor players, had mindlessly
mouthed empty lines about fiscal responsibility, limited government
and respect for the Constitution, will now not be pieced back
together. But for idiocy, why would the worshippers of nothing
so much as military might have displayed their ultimate impotence?
Only idiocy explains why the plunderers, utterly dependent on
the productive, have wasted their hosts so completely. Surely
the act is complete? We, the unwilling spectators, hold our breath,
longing for release. Enough! Let the curtain fall! Get on with
is the America that worships commander guys and destroyer gods!
This is the age of the Hollywood blockbuster! Enough is never
enough! The frenzy of destruction is never complete. There is
always another car-truck-bus chase to end in a twisted pile of
carnage ahead, another helicopter to crash, another train to wreck.
More falling debris to crush fleeing bit players
bombardment, a thermonuclear explosion, an asteroid if need be!
Whatever it takes to top that which has gone before and pierce
the American theater-goers' dull sensitivity, that his delight
in destruction might be made complete.
in the ways of theater, recognize the device: the mournful cello's
remorse signals the end of the act only to deceive, that we might
let our guard down, heightening the surprise of the next thunderous
imitates art. Busying themselves, the stagehands of this production,
the enabling talking heads and public nuisances, raise a great
sound and much fury about the acts to come.
of power-wielders and world-shapers, recognize the device! Will
the hapless audience exhale now, anticipating the act yet to come,
even as the clown prince remains on the stage, his last lines
yet unspoken, his final deeds unfinished?
and to-morrow, and to-morrow: