A Sick Man Ruling a Sick Land

Ode for a sick man

For a sick man the steak doesn’t tastes red nor the salad tastes green. His pajama top hangs around his neck like a noose. He wheezes rather than waltzes his way to the bedroom or to the bathroom. He is trapped in a defunct body.

This man is the president of the land. He is so addicted to himself that he must cut himself deeper and deeper in order to verify his subsistence. He subsists only in the sense that filth is filth that is immune to itself. He really doesn’t exist in the proper sense of the word. Yet he commands the largest fleet, a fleet that can rain destruction and he is left to himself talking to himself like a Faulkner character. A tale told by an idiot.

He manufactures stats that can flummox a mathematician. Because in this land, truth and fable are inseparable. In this land, the blind is all-seeing. Things as they are is good enough in this land. Never can a counterfactual exists except what is dreamt up by the Party.

As language is mangled and guns silence reason, we hope to be safe. But remember, Hope is the last thing that escaped from Pandora’s Box.