Play Us Out Slow, Sousa

Play Us Out Slow, Sousa

As the votes trickle in and I try desperately not to let anything trickle down my leg and the exit polls leave my heart pulsing with nervousness,
I think to myself:
Will we choose a full blown relapse to the regressivism of bygone eras
Will we choose a step in the direction of progress?
Even if it is the smallest of baby steps
And the foot isn’t as left as I’d like.

America is the textbook definition of insanity
Repeating the same backwards destructive acts over and over and over again and hoping for a different outcome until
They start to embrace the outcome
(As disastrous as it is)
And pray for more disaster.
It’s a sadomasochistic dance on a national level
With jingoistic overtures goading us on
(Is that a Sousa composition I hear?)

Used to be a time when the feudal lords in their lavish mansions shook in fear at the simmering fury of the people:
Guillotine blades and retaliatory slaves and pissed off peasants and livid revolutionaries and silly notions like equality and freedom and the greater good for all.
And what do we have here?
A fetid flaccid fawning fan club of obsolescent obedience that has,
Implicitly or otherwise,
Consented to the complete and utter dehumanization of that which defines us.

We have learned to love our masters,
And all it took,
As it turns out,
Was the flimsy farcical promise
To the rest of us
That this could
Nay, that this would
Be us someday–
All of us.

That we would all grow up to be bigwig businessmen and respectable greed legionnaires and colonels in the capitalist cavalry.
Except it can’t
And it won’t.
It’s simple economics isn’t it?
Only so much to go around, and by the time it gets round to most
It isn’t really much of anything is it?
But every people needs its false idols
And in typical American fashion,
We’ve really outdone ourselves.
If I didn’t know better,
I would think that Mammon was an American export.

America is like a man being tortured who asks the scavenger’s daughter
To watch the hair:
What’s the fucking point?
When you’re all twisted up beyond recognition and you’re bleeding from your eyes and ears and mouth and even if you somehow make it out of that nightmarish neck brace you’ll certainly never stand again:
What’s the point, America?

Maybe it’s time for a new set of legs.
But judging by your pervasive and perverse penchant for all things past,
It’ll probably be a peg leg won’t it?
Well go right ahead, but don’t blame me when you start seeing splinters
And the interest on the fucking thing is so high
That you’ll never pay it off,
Because you bought the line
That usury is useful,
And you didn’t have health insurance
Because you swallowed that socialist red herring too.

I don’t want to hear another word out of you, America:
It’s either bedtime for

This bed ain’t big enough for both.

2 responses »

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