TATER

He stares at the blank screen, willing the words to come.  Searching for a way out of the morass his heart is cemented in of late.  The muse is in Hawaii, learning how to surf long-board, or perhaps swooshing down the slopes in South America on a sweet 158 Gnu snowboard.  His thoughts ebb from darkness to the mundane, atrocity, to celebrity gossip and it’s destruction of the American will to fight the insidious powers that seek to destroy the Republic in a quest for totalitarianism.   The humiliation he feels at his own helpless feelings to get something  rolling, to awaken the indignity in others across this sedated land.  He  longs to hear the songs of brother’s and sister’s willing to join the fray, link arms and hearts to stop the madness descending on them like a Texas twister.

“WAKE UP! “ He screams.

“The fucking sky is falling, and no one seems to give a shit.”

Futility is a harsh friend, a bitter divorcee of hope and enlightenment.  She has rended his heart into small dark stones, and his sense of light and promise, to mud.  Left him with nothing to say momentarily, at least nothing other’s might wish to hear.  Left him coiled and irritable, willing to explode given the right tender spark.

The blankness of the screen mocks him and gives voice to the doubts in his head.

“What is one voice?”

“Who needs your sentimental claptrap?”

“Why not just immigrate to Canada?’

“Watch the new fall line up on TEEVEE, and stop your harping and carping.”

“Let someone else care for a change!”

“Let it go.”

But he can’t.  His country is too wrapped up in his woven tapestry of memories to flee it so easily.  The respect he used to feel for the Office of President, the awe of Capital Hill in social studies class, the magnificence of the constitution creating the very fabric of a free society, the struggles of a guerilla war against an empire which resulted in independence...these things hobble him from running.  Tie him to the hitching post of revulsion for an administration so abjectly corrupt that they stole two elections, destroyed the balance of power, have suppressed freedom to assemble, and freedom of speech, have corrupted every form of media to misinform the public and quiet the raging throngs, have murdered 100’s of thousands in the name of big oil, and turned their backs on the suffering of those less fortunate around the world, in order to keep feeding the insatiable war machine with fresh money, and young souls.

This intolerable fool is simply the faceplate for the Skull and Crossbone set, secretly securing their supremacy in the world, now that the cold war has faded into a power vacuum unprecedented in our history.  Big Brother is nearly finished putting the last stones in place to rule us all with tokens of prosperity and lifetimes of servitude to all their various innocuous corporate interests.  It’s all one company in the end, isn’t it?  Who are it’s owners and who are the slaves?

Dark thoughts, he knows.  Sharing them with no one but his dog, for fear of being branded a kook and a conspiracy theorist.  He stares at the blank screen and knows if he types his bleakness onto it, it will only serve to further diminish his will to seek out that little spark of hope.

He wonders who the saviour will be, that can once again capture the imagination of a badly jaded democracy?  Who will provide the glowing punk to spark the fuse?  Who can talk loudly enough to be heard above the din and gaggle of ipods, t.v.’s, computers, and gossip?  Who can protest to all of us the folly we have embraced by pretending this cunting little emperor is dressed in presidential robes?

The blank screen whispers mockingly,’ “no one”.

It’s 6:30 a.m., and I am at the quaint little train station, in this rosy little Republican enclave named Glen Ellyn.  Glen:

A glen is a valley, typically one that is long, deep, and often glacially U-shaped; or one with a watercourse running through such a valley. The word comes from the Irish language/Scottish Gaelic language word gleann, or glion in Manx. In Manx, glan is also to be found meaning glen. As the name of a river, it is thought to derive from the Welsh language glan meaning clean, or gleindid meaning purity.

Purity.  The word has many connotations for me, none of which are aspirant to a higher nature.  I have just purchased my monthly train ticket from Sandy, the ever smiling and pleasant ticket agent behind the bullet proof  glass in the station.  In my mind, I am picturing an irate wing tipped lawyer of yesteryear brandishing his nine millimeter at the agent, demanding cash, that he might be able to afford the spiraling cost of his morning latte, before escaping on the 6:57 train.  “No wonder they need to be shielded from the public”, I think to myself.  “Never know when Starbuck’s might raise their prices again!”  Lost in my thoughts as I sip my grande coffee, and looking out on this quiet morning, I take in what this town has to offer, and realize that it all boils down to one word:  pretension.  The ancient trees, the mini-mansions, the expensive sedans, the freshly scrubbed and starched commuters, all of them pretending that all is well in their world, and that this town symbolizes the comfort they pretend the majority of us all enjoy, espouse, and partake of. 

As I am engrossed in taking everyone else’s inventory while awaiting my train, I am nudged off my high horse and back into the moment, by the sound of footfalls and grunts on the crushed limestone jogging path across the tracks from me.

There appears a formation of runners, all sporting grey t-shirts with an “A” emblazoned on their fronts.  Army of one, in a long 2x2 rank and file, answering their drill sergeant with robotic chants.  I stand at attention as they near, and intently gaze at the baby faced young men, red faced with sweat and exertion.

Where are they from, these poor souls?  They certainly aren’t from this town.  Inhabitants here would loathe the idea of their kids on the battlefield, even though they espouse support for our troops, with all their little, yellow, magnetic ribbons.  It’s much more convenient to lend support when it poses no personal loss.  No, this W in ’04 bumper sticker crowd, send their kids to prep schools and the Ivy League, not Fallujah.  I search their faces in a vain attempt to discern status or place, but they have already been broken down into sameness.  Long hair shorn, stoned eyes clean, bodies built to sameness in their lean military mean.  I can’t help but stare at these poor young men, and wonder which of them signed up to get a chance for a college education?  Which ones are avoiding certain jail time if left to their own devices?  Which are the true believers in the cause, and which were lulled by the video gaming, ass kicking, advertising con?  Which are running to support a pregnant teenage partner, which are running from broken homes?

It’s too difficult to discern, for they are all running for their lives.  I say a silent prayer for them, and hope against my cynicism, that those swift legs will propel them out of harm’s way.

How does one outrun an IED?

How does one outrun three tours of duty without adequate rest and rehabilitation?

How does one outrun inadequate equipment?

How does one outrun the sheer arrogance of a failed, power hungry, egomaniac, who ignores his own military experts, in an all consuming quest for an impossible victory?

I cry for these young men and women, seeking escape from small and battered lives, hoping the mad dash to Iraq will help them escape a fate planned for them by the wealthy elite, stepping on their very necks to keep them down.  I sense they seek asylum in the dens of the lions which seek to devour them.  Blood for oil, blood for wealth, blood for domination and tyranny over the majority.  Small lives taken for the grandiose lives of ease and privilege.

Many are the poor and devastated wretches, needed to feed the insatiable desire of these greedy few.

“How much is enough?” I ask myself.

“How many children need to be injured and destroyed to support the America we have become?”

I see the truth around me now, as these young men fade to a point and eddies of dust on a trail;  it is well tailored.  These fine old oak tress, the fine stately homes, these boulevards of consumerism and painfully empty hearts.  They have grown fat and tired on the blood of innocents, the only word they ever hear is “more”.  This sleepy little town, where we pretend the American Dream is attainable for all those willing to work for it, is as culpable as the heartless thugs in the west wing, and corporate boardrooms around the world.

I hear the train coming, and the only word my heart can hear is “RUN”.