Tuesday, January 11, 2005

All Has Gone Quiet



I miss the rage.

The disillusionment. The effigies. The hippie chicks. The Idiot Boy jokes. The young vote. The polls. Jon Stewart.

The hope.

The hope that sprung from the rage. The anticipation of change.

I miss it all. The digital uprising, the shock, the standing of it no more, the multiplying and disgusted Americans screaming like children in pain prior to Bush's inexplicable reelection. The dissenters came crawling out of the woodwork and planted themselves in the ground like so many erect and stormy flowers. It was a beautiful thing. There were many of us. It was massive and just too small.

It was almost like a revolution. But without the guns or violence or leaders hanging in the streets. Too bad. I jest. Maybe.

We had no guns, but we did have numbers.

And voices. Riots on screens. Messages. Instant and insistent.

Now it's gone. The rage. Bush won, America lost, and in rushed the silence. Nobody shouts anymore. Not really. The people have gone back to reality television and reality.

This is exactly what I feared. Fire can't survive without air, and I guess howls of disenchantment rising up from the people can't survive without the lure of the king being removed from his throne. Kings win, balloons pop. Life goes on. Quietly. In defeat.

I can't say I'm not as much to blame as anyone.

What can be said anymore? The new war is years away. Ammunition must be saved, no?

No.

Iraq grows worse
by the day, and Bush lifts his nose to bad news, choosing only to hear the good as he vacations in Texas or plays with his new dog or smokes cigars or searches for Cheney.

Or does nothing.

The money will be all gone, but not before lavish guiltless celebrations mark the arrival of the president in the city in which he already presides. Already. This is funny. Almost. Somewhere in this party may be point, but I don't see it.

Many are not happy. Much is broke.

The beat goes on. The drummer is dead. It's all prerecorded. Like History. And live television. Janet Jackson, that bitch.

Hispanics are named to to lofty positions because they are Hispanic and there is a growing number of Hispanic voters to be courted and because past minority staff members have proven to be sycophants as well as any white man (or woman) and because Hispanics can argue the difference between torture and merely fucking with someone really, really bad as well as anyone. Never let it be said that I didn't extol the virtue of Hispanics. And I love hot Hispanic chicas.

Rumsfeld - oh, gloriously inept Rumsfeld - may be up to old tricks. It worked so well in El Salvador, peasants and priests massacred wonderfully. Like clockwork. And nobody really noticed. Or cared. And the Gipper was deified before conveniently forgetting.

I miss the rage.

I knew it would go, and it has gone. But it exists. Elsewhere. Far from where it can bother the next decrepit American Idol or the breakup of Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston. The rage is alive and well, but horrendously misguided. Just look at it. Look.

It isn't beautiful like our rage was beautiful. Our American rage was funny.

But weak.

It's gone. It was crushed. We were fucked.

The gods are surely laughing. Or really pissed off. Or drunk. I would drink with them, if they were here. They went out for a smoke.

And I don't believe in gods, but that hasn't stopped them from hissing in my ear, their sour tongues going in and out, violent caresses. They talk of the ocean attacking the land and the great flood flowing, and of hurricanes in the stolen state of the brother, and of endless rain in Cali, and of snow in Vegas, and of perfect sun if I follow.

Tsunami? 24/7. Bush could not have planned a better diversion. Who knew water weaved such a thick and useful wool?

They laugh, these gods. And I laugh with them because I find it funny, their delusional existence they speak of. Fools! Then I fall to my knees, pray. There are mere seconds left and point spreads to cover. They tell me I have set my sights much too low, these gods. And I know they're right. But I can't hear them. The deafening rush of water won't hush, but I have my ipod. I like this song. On repeat. Now I go out alone if I go out at all.

They never existed and now they're dead to me, these gods.

Look what they have done without existing. Look what we have done without trying.

The earth's insurrection is being televised.

The leaders of the new wave want reimbursements before they proceed.

Kid Rock is un-American for wearing the flag.

Photos capture destruction in the background. A little to the left.

Moss committed the sin of having fun.

The boys search through garbage for armor.

Muslims know who to blame. They always do.

Hope cannot be bought.

So donations are needed.

But who am I to ask?

4 Comments:

Blogger Hoodrow said...

Poetry, dude.

In any event, exactly what we talked about, huh? One thing though, and perhaps I missed some sarcasm, but it's kinda tough to be laying the actions of one assclown on an entire group of people, no? That said, I loved the way Biden called bullshit on his bullshit. Very small, actually insignificant victory.

8:45 PM  
Blogger UnknownColumn said...

Are you referring to the Hispancic thing? Yeah, not literal. Just me being a smartass.

Biden? Funny you mention him. Maybe he just wouldn't want to run, but I keep wondering why he isn't mentioned as a Dem possibility to run for president. I like that mofo. He seems bad ass. He seems like a Dem that actually doesn't have to lift up his skirt and squat when he pees.

11:41 PM  
Blogger UnknownColumn said...

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

11:44 PM  
Blogger UnknownColumn said...

Oops, that second comment is in the wrong spot. But Ben Gordam night make a good prez candidate.

12:05 AM  

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