I was going through a —

I was going through a psychedelic blizzard of a holocaust.  It wasn’t inside of me — it was all around me and everyone — the hateful mendacity of Obama, the New York Times, Hillary Clinton and the rest of the so-called centrist civic institutions.

Jay Carney summed it up best when he got sharp with the press on the issue of extrajudicial killings.  I missed Helen Thomas in a way that was almost childlike.

We were all children again in the new horrific spring.  Our script had been radically mislaid by carpetbaggers and reasonable men.  They talked endlessly of Reason in stern, scolding diction.  They had a contempt for their children that can only emanate from an out of control parent.

Across the aisle were the glistening fangs of the earth butchers, grizzly mom cops and psychotic god rapers.  They were in the extreme north and south and also everywhere else in Virginia.  The Newt, Grover, and all the other surly Sesame Street characters.  But we knew about all that and thought them laughably horrific.  It was the familiar stranger — the drunk on power uncle — that we felt most alarmed by.

He had gone, hat in hand, to the vast corporate cushions for another underwriting.  Because he was a realist and a man of reason.  The kind of reasonable man that christened and dedicated the MLK statue while Cornel West was arrested down the street.  “Tone deaf” was the only unexhausted munition in the media’s hackneyed arsenal.

We told ourselves that we were being uncharitable to the first African-American president:  imagine the  bigotry and pushback he must endure!  And yet he seemed to make the most obvious, Clintonian decisions again and again.  He was in the realm of magical economic thinking.  Timothy Geithner and his stalwart droogs dripped ‘juice of cursed hebanon’ in ‘the porches of [his] ear.’

Hamlet was the greatest play on earth, again.  The one about the prince who returned from his year abroad only to find his uncle fucking his mother and winking lewdly from his murdered father’s chair.    The prince has been accused of “not reacting,” but people fail to realize how audacious the circumstances were that he found himself confronted by.

Imagine for a moment: you have been away for a semester, studying an emerging secular philosophy, embracing your fellows in a first-class academic setting, when you are called away to your father’s funeral.  When you return to Denmark you find that your uncle now shares your father’s bed and that your mother is putting on a happy face.

Polonius, or The New York Times, repeats his sterling platitudes about measure and even-ness and patience.  He sucks the new king’s tailpipe, as he has sucked every administrative pipe before it.  When his son went overseas, he was careful to warn him against herpes and other foreign dangers.

His daughter grew progressively more insane, choking on the splinters of Reason that beset her every exit.  Finally, she drowned; her white blouse undulating beneath the waves and ramparts.

I was going through a psychedelic holocaust so I eschewed speech out of respect for images and symbols.  You were too.

 

Advertisements