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America's Last Throes

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I find I have little to say, lately, on the entire Bush tyranny.

I've been raging inside over the miscarriage of justice that has been going on since 2000. I've written hundreds of posts; I've lost friendships over the election; I've taken to the streets in protest and have been swiftly locked up in a barbed-wire, makeshift jail for over 50 hours without speaking to a lawyer; I've worn shirts conveying my feelings; I've sent money to help those in the cause; I've written letters to congress, sent emails, and signed countless petitions.

And to be honest, "miscarriage of justice" is not the correct phrase. A miscarriage is not purposely achieved. This bloody, clotted mess the Bush junta has strewn upon our plates is an abortion of justice. It is a hot, stinking, mangled, mess of death and loss, dropped right down into our trusting embrace, and we are still in so much denial that we are scolding a baby; telling it to get up and walk.

Offensive imagery? You don't know the half of what I have to say. And a third of that, I cannot, for I fear I would be picked up and swiftly shipped to a gulag. I damn well hope you are offended. For myself, I am a good deal beyond offended. I am shrieking inside over this gross, aberration we call George W. Bush, and his group of leftover Nixonites. The ex-cheerleader turned dictator wags his head and opens his mouth, and the putrid miasma of his secret agenda stinks up my mind so terribly that I begin ranting, my words an attempt to clear the room of trickery, greed, and artless prevarication. Democracy? He is spreading insanity, and I have caught the fever.

Rumsfeld grins as he jokes with the reporters, and my stomach tightens, for I fear I am going mad; the man's face suddenly looks as if he is wearing a death rictus. There is no wisdom in his voice, no philosophy. Only contempt, and an iron will.

Cheney talks of death, fear, nukyalur weapons, and a world so dark only a demon could have conjured it. I see an archetype in the set of his jaw and the glint of his eye""an age old enemy in the oily, gravel of his speech. Some things never die, you see. They only cycle through time, quiescent for a few seasons, until they begin blackly bubbling up through the grass.

Rove stands at the lecturn, addressing his army of politicians, and the porcine, nasal ring of his words saddens me more than anything. I can see his need for strength, yet he remains a small and nasty man who cannot understand that he still has no true power in his palm. Only devious methodology that he has practiced well.

Gonzales purses his cute little cheeks as he talks in circles around Congress; as he gloats inside over his cleverness, over his ability to instate torture as an American device, and my heart (too) is filled with unspeakable violence.

Condaleeza spews her Bushisms and my lip curls, as if I am a dog, smelling a dangerous stranger. My repulsion is natural and speedy, for the sound of her lies aggravates my soul, and I want her to stop making such terrible noise; this cacophany of madness, this duplicity in the name of power and greed.

Their name is Legion, and they all speak the same language. The political play of the century is that they have convinced us they are Americans, that they are human, and that they care about us.

What more is there to say? We've said it all. Me, you, the news. Now, we're just dabbling in degrees of condemnation. We're just rearranging our diatribes and jeremiads. We've exposed the lies, we know the elections were stolen and thus, our democracy moot; we've shown the torture; we've witnessed death upon death, and the not-so-gradual deterioration of both our beautiful American ideals, and the passion and will of the people to do anything effective and relevant about it. We've seen Bush's programs, and their slant. We've watched homeless, pregnant teenage girls have their funding cut off; we've seen the Earth suffer under his rule, we've watched our grandparents confused and without medical coverage because of this administration's greed. There is no violation against human beings that these evil people have not approached or executed. And you and I don't even know half of what they are really up to.

However, like in the recent Boston Legal episode, the People are "apparently, not offended." We still accept torture, rape of humans, rape of the Constitution, mass-murder, leaders who understand people as well as we understand why so many kill in the name of some type of God, hostility toward the environment, and tax breaks for the rich! Yay! We are, apparentely, not offended at the loss of every single check and balance that our Social Studies teachers led us to believe were immovable bedrock of our Nation's laws. Our TV actors give more sincere, outraged and prescient views than our leaders. Bloggers understand the course, curse of, and cure for the nation better than anyone in power, and they funnel money to contestants in the big Talk Show of today's politics. People on my street and in the town and in the country keep living their lives as if nothing has changed, and I don't understand why.

Honestly. I am actually baffled that we are continuing to live our lives as if there is not a horrible, horrible spiritual anti-matter machine in motion, eating up our peace of mind, our moral standing, and the lives of thousands and thousands and thousands. I have seen pictures of the mangled faces and bodies of children""bullet-holes in their foreheads, guts spilling from their bodies""and then, I have seen our "leaders" in the face of this unnecessary and elective carnage, and they still talk as if we are doing great things for the world. A billion bloggers say they are morally outraged and fear the death of our most dear ideals and "inalienable" rights; protestors still mark up signs and shout in the street; books are published by the score that detail the crimes of our "leaders"...but they all go home and dutifully pay their taxes, the only thing insuring this madness (that we claim to be against) can go forward.

Where is our Thoreau? Where is our MLK? Where is our Rosa Parks? Where is our Norman Morrison? Where is our Thich Quang Duc? Where is our humanity?

It is gone. Gone, gone, like a levee in the storm. Our humanity has slipped behind the couch, and we are more concerned with finding the remote control so we can tune in to our favorite "reality" show. Where is our American spirit of revolution that would insist we harbor no tyrant who would dare make such horrible mockery of our rights? It has faded, and is pressed and quaintly preserved between the pages of musty textbooks, like a rare and forgotten flower. Where is the action to back up our online eloquence? It has disappeared into the tip jar, and we'd rather count up pennies than take to our feet.

No, I don't have much to say anymore about this nightmare. I will continue to weep, to fear, to hope, to speak, to write my books in an attempt to teach children a better perspective, to walk in the sun, and the wind; to try and enjoy the parts of life that seem beyond the reach of the criminals in power today. But the truth is, these things are not out of their reach. They can blot out the sun, they can taint the waters, they can poison the food, they can kidnap you in the middle of the night and kill you, answer to nobody. In fact, all these things are Under Construction. And it is not just the foremen, but all of us who are holding hammers, waving rulers, and wearing nail aprons.

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Joaquín Ramón Herrera Social Media Pages: Facebook page url on login Profile not filled in       Twitter page url on login Profile not filled in       Linkedin page url on login Profile not filled in       Instagram page url on login Profile not filled in

Nezua is an author and illustrator by trade, a rebel at heart, and a fugitive from the iron claw of ennui. You can find more of his writing at , his videos at , (more...)
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