Posted by guest blogger Julian.
Kitty, Karl, Karma and Tea
First - the preamble to random thought assemblage concerning Kitty Genovese, Karl Rove, Tea Parties and Blighted Karma
When I wrote the poem at the end of this piece, it was one of those which, like many, evolved from a dream, assumed the clarity of a vision and imbedded itself in my mind. In the vision, the America which I saw was bleak and devoid of feeling or warmth… not until I saw the Book of Eli did I see a landscape to resonate with the view.
Originally I thought that it had to do only with the growing parasite of apathy which had seemingly attached itself to more and more people with each passing day. As when Kitty Genovese was slowly stabbed to death while her neighbors, considering her screams for help to be bothersome, admitted having turned up their televisions and radios so that they were not troubled by the dying woman.
“Turn up Ed Sullivan; why doesn’t that miserable girl stop screaming?” And eventually, she did..
But now, I flash forward to the evening in which staunch Republican Karl Rove, ranted viciously about a young woman named Christine, who had the audacity to run for office without the anointing of the “Party”, and who had won the hearts and minds of the common people. The Ruling Class, which sees itself as Royalty, may wear a D or an R as a suffix, but it does not approve of the mere hoi-polloi daring to raise its voice. Like the people in the poem, the Elites just want troubling sights to go away and leave them alone, to rule the peasants as always.
And like the soulless neighbors of Kitty Genovese, they do not desire to hear any voices which are not of their own choosing or their own design.
Of course, there is a difference, Mr. Rove, Mr. Steele, et al. The voices that are intruding into your ivory towers are not the helpless screams of dying victims. They are the angry, demanding voices of people whom you vowed to serve, and betrayed. Each day there are more and more, and they will not be denied. The feet of the tyrant, regardless of the name of the party to which the tyrant belongs, are already touching a tripwire, despite the clamoring voices warning them away. If they press on until the tripwire is broken, they will bring devastating consequences upon themselves… and if that point should arrive, then all the hand-wringing, blaming, and self-righteous posturing, will not settle the smoke filled air. The game will be over.
Enough preamble. Here is the poem. May the reader enjoy, interpret, ponder or simply smile with pity at this foolish writer whose words are sometimes less than bright and cheerful. Good night and joy be with you all.
No green leaves, only dry, grey brush
Crackling fingers make supplication to a pitiless winter sky
In the vacant lot stretched out to the right
the few rays of sunlight strike the whiteness of the bones
Passing by, the people slow their pace-
some say the fragments are so large they must be
from a small cow or a large goat.
But no one wants to say it, no one wants to hear
What they know in their hearts to be true:
those pieces are just the right size for a petite
Or a big, ill mannered child.
And one by one they go their way,
just as they did yesterday
and all the yesterdays gone by
so long. So long.
They turn away and push their wobbling shopping carts again,
looking straight ahead because the day is fading
not looking around because the time is short.
Rolling and strolling down the bumpy sidewalk and out of sight.
Perhaps the bones will be gone tomorrow.