Politico Pyromania

Not that long ago I thoroughly enjoyed the electoral silly season of these here United States’ political campaigns.

It was a serious collective endeavor while still, somehow, remaining entertaining, somewhat edifying, and in the main…win or lose…fun.

Now I’m not suggesting that it was always Happy Days, far from it. There’s no tee-hee, hoot & holler, or bust a gut about loose nukes, racial discrimination, political assassinations, wars and rumors of war, ever persistent inequality, and the forever grift that keeps on grifting.

It’s a mess. Always been a mess. Will forever be a mess.

But, by and large, the political players, back in the day…(Oh Lord…) were aware of how tenuous our theater of a democratic/republic can be, so chose to see their roles as thespians of both political theory and practical day in and day out politics. They were performative in a palpable sense of what’s politically possible.

Today, it seems to me, a new crop of politicos are performative to the point of setting fire to and attempting to burn down that aforementioned democratic/republic stage. They seemed not to appreciate the very form of governance they’ve taken an oath to uphold and protect.

Somehow we the people have incentivized incendiarism.

And that ain’t too cool for hearth and home.

Below is another Lo-Fi Tone Poem…. “Engraving Error”

Avifauna: A Flash Fiction

I was hoodwinked into a blind date the Saturday night of my second full week in the orphanage.

My entourage of fellow left behinds awaited my fetching of the lass from the warmth of her home. And now all coupled, the eight of us walked three short blocks to the bungalow hosting the soiree.

It started in a basement den with soft drinks, large tins of potato chips, and Cross Town Traffic on the stereo. The house smelled of permanence, and well lived lives, with a new current of intruding happy hormones, and all spiced, ever so slightly, with an occasional whiff of marijuana, barely a buzz.

My date was easy on the eyes. A quietly attractive, buddingly confident, bookish, but playfully serious sixteen year old. We bantered a bit. And boogied a bit, and shared one or two 3.2 beers.

And then out of the blue, she said, “ Know what I’m really interested in…don’t laugh… Ornithology”

“Hmmm,” I paused a beat,” So you, just might be… interested in the mating habits of the young jail-bird.” Her eyes went wide, and she blushed the red of the Marlboro pack in my shirt pocket. Then she smiled, and pulled me towards her and we danced to the Temptations’ My Girl.

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