Among the evolving there's a devolution. There is a siren wailing the savage song of loss. A wave of tension, that as it strikes the shore of progress, emits its high, holy death rattle. And oppositional forces, motivated but unaware that malignant aspirations reside in futility, suffer the universal tendency toward disorder as it stands firmly in opposition of their oppression. In these final stages, when the thrash and temper of humankind reveals itself in part so ugly, so cold. Then does the tightening grip of mortis set in begging for the decisive blow. The succor they seek, the fruit and fallout of their belligerent designs, can know no forever, no perpetual peace. And like all death throes before them, cling as they might, they will leave behind naught but the high, holy death rattle.
I was inspired while listening to Donald Trump insist upon the need to “restore” law and order. I hate to attribute too much inspiration to any one political blowhard, because the fact remains that the circumstances that created today’s demagogue existed yesterday and will, in all probability, exist tomorrow. So Donald, don’t let this go to your head.
The restoration in effect, of that ever-elusive state. Where restful nerves and leery eyes stick fast to hallowed ground. How the calamity came to be many manic minds never settled. It was, it is, may be unto forever, but no never mind. The restoration will spread like seeds along the distended bloat. And endure the sensation of prophecy fulfilled, mouth agape and hands stolen still.
I worry now about rule with a "view to private interest," and I do so while I hear the call of greatness and declarations regarding primacy of place. I am not a country, but a man. Am a working man, a human of this present with a desire to exist peacefully and fluidly. My primacy of place is fixed by my love of self, not the screeching of banshees propping themselves upon the backs of others. But the great spirit that protects me is vulnerable. Hijackers, proponents of a collective disintegration, work their voodoo on the frazzled, hoping to string us along together. They feed on the sores of the body ideologic, drawing strength from the bubbling excretion of the wilted body as if imbibing a sacred elixir.
The following poem is an exploration of the effects of a shifting social landscape. There’s a certain anxiety in the realization that your views define you in relation to others.
Where here there is an unsettling air, I once knew stillness and depth. The shifting plains of social certainty, leftward, to discussions focused resolutely on the prosperity of my fellow person. This shift pleases me in part, at least in that it acknowledges decency as core to a positive human experience. But the ground I've come to know as my own, well tilled and fruitful in rational exuberance, is now a toxic sort. The putrid aroma of sticking firmly to a new pole: the preservationist! Am I now a man of lesser salt? Am I now cast opposed to those I've observed so intently? Have my words become the weapons of your despair? The tendency of the world is to reduce complexity, to simplify in form and function and package you... Your ideas are a missive -- the short form to humanity, in which all you are is not, but all they see is. You want that my views are basic to credit your own thoughts. But your desire is no more than a manifestation of your insecurity.