Demon Seed

Once astride the Tiger; you may find it difficult to dismount”.Chinese proverb

The weather gal is pure hot-wax sex; all red lips, roomy hips and painted fingertips. Her skin so supple she must be using a moisturizer made of Unicorn tears. Her eyes sparkle a brilliant china blue and in HD seem to change colors kaleidoscopically, bathing the contours of her face and giving her the piercing stare of a late winter, backwoods timber-wolf; a deep contrast to the winter-weathered faces lined in pain that appear through my writers window on this gray winters day. She sashays provocatively across my magic box like Marilyn Monroe on a Spike Lee hover-cart; one of those rolling platforms he films his actors on in scenes that make them look to be floating.

She foretells a week of temperatures in the forties, well, high thirties anyway, and for this we the caged and agitated simians previously catatonic from lack of stimulation howl with pleasure; there are just twenty-seven days till Spring. We share the fate of the cabin fevered bout’ to chew off our arms from boredom after being held locked down indoors like wild panthers pacing our cages all winter suffering for our sanity. We kick the next two weeks over the tippy-top of the mountain; from Fat Tuesday to Super Tuesday; may it be a blur. We search our memories trying to recall just how the sun looks and more importantly feels so when it finally appears we won’t be struck stupid like Rainman or Forest Gump. Its what the rest of you living in climes suitable for human habitation call February.

CNN has interrupted the Rodan Vs Godzilla cage matches between the mongoloid Republican presidential candidates long enough to bring me, live and in color, the final fuck you from Antoine “Nino” Scalia. Though I am somewhat distressed at this outrage, since I eat this political cluster-fuck performance up with a spoon; not a t-spoon or a soup-spoon or even a large serving spoon; I ladle it on like custard; because Nino lay prostrate in walnut or mahogany or is it stainless steel; no matter; the devil wouldn’t dare mess with this demon and insects would probably spit him out; I connect his demise with that of his legion of fan-boys; the Right Wing locked and loaded propeller heads.

He lay in repose in some great hall in Washington on the same casket apparatus used for Abraham Lincoln which is more than a bit ironic since Lincoln freed Blacks from slavery while Nino did his best to keep them there. He lay in state, dearly departed to his Tea Party acolytes; the last dying breath of a kind of anal retentive privilege cast known as conservative; scion of the the Hope and Strange party.(Hoping no one will notice how strange they are.)

The Democrats are poised to win the presidency for the fifth time in seven elections. Since 1948, the year Harry Truman won a fifth straight election for the Democrats, following Franklin D. Roosevelt’s four wins, and coincidentally the year I was born, a political party has won three straight elections only once. The Republicans have themselves and Nino to blame; they let in the demon seed Tea Party Dragon when the fire it breathed suited them to fulfill what became the fattest mistake in a long history of modern political fuck-ups. Had they worked with the big B.O. they’d a’ had a willing partner and could have gotten Billy Clinton-style cooperation. Instead they joined Romney style delusion, a guy who on election night was preparing an acceptance speech certain he’d won while Barack crushed the electoral collage by 100 votes.

So, listening to their leaders in the senate, the Republican hangdog Mitch McConnell decided to block and demonize and now the bitch that breaths fire has spun around to burn them down. Hillary won’t be anywhere as malleable as Barack would have been; she is as pissed as God himself after we hung his son; they’ll be no talking her down. At her inauguration they ought to play Elton John’s hit The Bitch Is Back. The Hope and Strange Party hope to rile up their fear-filled torch and pitchfork crowd to storm the Bastille but those inbred have long since decided they don’t really like them either. It’s Trump the Rump now and his theme music is Bruce Lee’s Enter The Dragon. Both sides of this War of the Roses are playing for keeps.

The ghoulish practice of funerals is on full display this morning in all its hyped-up glory. Tears and fears flow, cascade and fall into a pool of regret. The great lion is dead. His law clerks, four a year for thirty years and not a black face in the crowd, bow in reverence to the old fart and weep for the demise of one so unapologetic; the antipathy of political correctness; a Mount Rushmore wanna be along with Ronnie the Ray-Gun, Barry, (“Extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice. And moderation in the pursuit of justice is no virtue.“) Goldwater and William F. Buckley; the backroom wet dream of all who genuflect to the notion that if we were all white again; we be all right again.

I for one believe once a man falls he’s off limits to my criticism since its bad form to curse those who through no fault of their own can not curse me back. Better it seems to focus on what good the bastard did. (I suppose I’m making a bit of an exception for Nino.) But this glorification of dead weight always seemed a bit more than creepy to me. Say what you will about them but the Muslims seem to have this one right. Once you’re dead you go down before sundown, My tribe conversely fawns over the remains for days while the formaldehyde filled meat sack molds. We genuflect and pray at the foot of the casket while Italian food is being served in the anteroom. I suppose those weepers need to keep up their strength in front of; HEY! Listen up people! It’s a dead body for fuck sake!

But a larger narrative dominates these days and it reflect an axiom I’ve been haranguing my friends with for lo these many years. It’s the idea that we are all too scared to think for ourselves. In a recent interview Ayad Akhtar, Pulitzer winning playwright expounded.We’re on a train called life; searching for meaning. Every now and then one of us wakes up to the question of what it is and where its going. We seek the answers from those around us. Those we would ask often have no idea there is a question. Those who have some sense of the question have no answer. The one who would seek to know the truth will find him or herself confronted with the fact that life is taking us into a great unknown and that the soul’s innate reaction to that knowledge is terror.”

Terror; sounds just about right to me and the soul of what I’ve been going on about. If the fear we carry through life that began during the birthing process; where we only push ourselves out into the dark unknown when our present environs will no longer sustain life and thus we carry fear with us always, the crux of my theory, It’s no wonder then that we reach for the easy answer; the one’s provided to us by otherwise charlatan sub-genius film-flam men like Trump or worse Cruz, the last dying breath of Joe McCarthy and more recently lampooned as the reincarnation of the infamous Zodiac killer of Bay Area fame. Or, for my money, an even worse choice; we invest in the fantasy of religion.

Sadly for those aforementioned, critical thinking, which each person can only do for themselves, is like a Porsche; there is no substitute. To overcome the terror of the power of the human mind to evaluate, decipher and select the greater good is the only way forward. We might get it wrong; sure. But do we really want to leave it to the ilk that strive for personal ambition above all else or the guy wearing the dress and the funny hat?

The millennial generation are as left a group as we’ve seen since the 1960’s, when we illuminated the moment the civil rights era, anti-colonial struggles and the baby boomers coming of age coalesced to reshape the world in ways that still resonate. They are piercing the veil of myth, scorning hero worship and rejecting the hype that embodied a massively repressive 1950’s America, then as now, marked by fear of the unknown and fear of the other; much the same as the jackasses on the right want us to believe we are faced with today.

Socrates said “to find yourself; think for yourself”. One need only listen to the narrative of the dialog being flung about today during these primaries to know each of us is no less capable of constructing a future that feeds all mankind without demonizing one another or reacting from fear; we need only be brave and assertive in our public lives. If the millennial crowd, the folks who will decide this election, engage in a collective effort to select the candidate that represents the greater good, that illuminating joint effort, much in the same ways it did for my generation in the last reformation, will find sharing that particular bond; stronger than friendship.

All the necessary elements are teed-up for the first woman president; a can’t win opponent opposite, a youth movement speaking the progressive mother tongue, handed not down but up, the true expression of the Seeds of the Sixties, a proto-language nurtured since kindergarten reflecting the socialist Utopian notion of sharing and a sociolinguistic identity attracting them to Feel The Bern of an ideological firebrand. Perhaps my generation were too narcissistic in thinking it would be us that changed the world. Perhaps its the Millennial generation who are the true Seeds of the Sixties; the seeds of the Boomer generation. Maybe it wasn’t us that that made the giant leap; it’ll be our off-springs off-spring. Just maybe the revolution is, like many other historically, ancestral. The Iowa caucus and New Hampshire primary were clear signs that Millennial’s could carry the 2016 presidential election. And the proof is in the numbers; over 80 percent of Democratic participants under the age of 30 voted for Senator Sanders according to a recent CNN poll. (Obama received only 57 percent in 2008.)

I love Bernie; he’s the goods and my dream candidate, but like his policies and economic plan, he ought to label his campaign Dream-works. I hate to say it cause’ I like the old geezer but misconstruing the politics of resentment and blame and seeing it as idealism is the same bullshit that under-girds Trump. You don’t have to listen to too many of Sanders’ speeches to glean the central theme that can be summarized by the phrase: “it’s someone else’s fault!” Can’t get a good paying job? It’s Wall Street’s fault. Can’t afford your medications? It’s the big pharmaceutical company’s fault. Can’t afford your college tuition? It’s the government’s fault for not making it free.

What the seventy-eight million Millennials, the largest U.S. Demographic, have in common is important because they show that Millennial’s are optimistic about the future of our country and the power they have to make a difference through voting, even while sometimes frustrated with our current political process. Young voters have the power to decide the election and the rumors of their disinterest are false. Let this be a lesson to both major parties, politicians who ignore the youth vote do so at their own peril. The old, white man Hope and Strange Party is as dead as Nino and thanks to the gods of Hope and Change for that.


About circusinpurgatory
Nick Masesso Jr’s fictionalized short stories, poetry and prose have been published in the Starry Night Review, Elegant Thorn Review, Language and and Vagabond Press; the Battered Suitcase. His latest book “Armor of Innocence” and first book “Walking the Midway in Purgatory, a Journal” are available on-line and through bookstores.

One Response to Demon Seed

  1. Reblogged this on Nick Masesso, Jr..

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