May Sarton once explained that when she wanted to know what she thought she wrote prose and when she wanted to know what she felt, she wrote poetry. I think I have written a hybrid and wish she were here to give her appraisal.
The Parade
I went to a curb to see the parade.
First came the Buffoon, contained within a hyper-inflated, gargantuan balloon designed to hide the broken child inside. The balloon was worn, tattered at the edges. It seemed melancholy. Behind the Buffoon hovered the Associate and Assistant Buffoons, each in his own balloon (even the women were men), with a panoply of self-presentations, all desperate replications of the weary Buffoon. Some were boisterous and full of self-importance, some defiant, some patronizing and supercilious, some assaultive in tone and demeanor, even sinister and menacing. They all eagerly told lies. They seemed to enjoy, even need their dominance. Among them, the shared investment was in victory, the vanquishing of a foe. It was unclear who or where the foe was. A few seemed unsure, embarrassed or ashamed though it seemed dangerous to manifest this. They all seemed to know that the victory was unclean, though some thought this was an achievement too.
Second came the soapsuds, hordes of small balloons smashed together and surging, each small individual trying to look like he was contained within a balloon that mimicked the balloon of the Buffoon. There were so many of them that they cohered into bubble clusters, becoming soapsuds, first swelling and heaving, then creating an aimless gush and eddy without destination. It seemed that somehow being part of the soapsuds was itself the perceived achievement. Again, while nearly all were men, a few were women. They seemed to strut, keeping them from noticing the unclean aspects of their celebration. It appeared dangerous to even mention the word “unclean”. After all, they did look like vibrant and active soapsuds.
Third came a group of participants creating a boundary enclosure surrounding the soapsuds, moving through the parade with them. They were pomegranate seeds, removed from the pomegranate, declustered, cleaned of the inner linkages, all solo presentations, sparkling in the sunlight. They gave the appearance of relating to one another, yet seemed insistent on avoiding connecting. They were all women. Frequently, spasmodically, a pomegranate seed would be grabbed by the soapsuds edge runners, disappear, and slowly re-emerge, thrust back to join the pomegranate seeds, impregnated. This seemed to be viewed as a norm. The pomegranate seeds knew the soapsuds were pretending they were protecting the pomegranate seeds. The pomegranate seeds knew it was they protecting the semi-conscious soapsuds. They seemed to not know the price of the protection racket they were running.
Fourth came the observers, who knew that though all or any can be observers, they were professional observers, dressed in proper human professional clothing acceptable in all environments. Because they were professionals, they were able to provide THE TRUTH. They were awaiting the arrival of the Buffoon’s favorite messenger, Mercury, who provided the essential content for recording and disseminating THE TRUTH. While approaches to this task varied, THE TRUTH never did, and if the job was well done, it could earn the praise of the Buffoon. The challenge was always to generate a profit from their work, create windmills of false equvalencies to veil inequities while avoiding evoking the wrath of the Buffoon, his Associates and Assistants, and the backdrop of soapsuds. While waiting for Mercury, they were entertaining themselves with raucous or righteous diatribes of blame and shame, advice on self-improvements, and assurances of failure and defeat if their version of THE TRUTH were to be ignored. It was an unstated assumption that it was critical no member of the professional observers assumed blame or accountability for any of the outcomes they had often created and then observed.
Fifth came the highly anticipated Mercury who would provide the essential parameters of THE TRUTH unfolding. Mercury flew in wearing a pink pleated skirt and a scarlet lace bra. This was a bit of a surprise but went unmentioned. All the observers took notes as Mercury explained THE TRUTH as declared by the Buffoon. It seemed Mercury had a bit of a smirk on his face as he fluffed his skirt, hiked up his bra, and prepared to leave…promising to return with the next set of directives of THE TRUTH to be published, broadcast, podcast, YouTubed, SubStacked, Instagrammed, TikToked, and Xed. As he left, he suggested that the observers make sure all sites for THE TRUTH were “covered”. A few nervous observers watched closely, and yes, Mercury was definitely smirking.
Sixth came the “If Not For Me” groups, easily identifiable in their colorful albeit often scruffy quasi-matched "team uniforms". They carried their credentials on large red banners listing the number of votes they were able to generate in each state. The swing states had special honors so they were listed first. Each group carried signs that explained that if not for them, the Buffoon would not have prevailed. They were actually quite touching. First, they seemed to not realize that no one group among them had achieved the outcome; they had done so collectively (in this case their mental state could be attributed to the practices being used by the professional observers). They also marched in the parade to get the favor and privilege that they anticipated would soon be theirs: the Benificence of the Buffoon who would see them as chosen ones. Overhead, Mercury, his “Red State Bra” catching the sunset, was trailing them with his smirk seeming to expand.
Seventh came the largest segment of the parade, a huge surge of people who seemed to look and act like they were enjoying the most uncensored parts of a Mardi Gras Parade or a Super Bowl Celebratiion. They appeared giddy, perhaps tipsy at least, often cheering and giggling. I could not discern what they were celebrating but opted not to ask them, since I noticed they expressed aggression and attacking responses when others asked. I sensed that it was a dark energy fueling them, and I was glad no one was carrying a lighter or torch since they seemed ignitable. They were the last portion of the parade and seem to dissipate as the parade ended as a fade out, pulling out their phones, hurrying off to commitments about fashion, football, frozen pizza and fun. I found myself checking to make sure I still had my wallet, turned and walked away. Overhead, Mercury was flipping his skirt and smirking at me.
I was walking home, deep in thought when I heard chanting. While Mercury had arrived to represent my Roman roots, suddenly a Greek chorus had arrived, intent on sharing with me the message of the Parade, informing me about the necessary insight it had offered me. I was weary but they were insistent and began a simple repetitive chant, the chant of millions of souls, awash in bright light, honest hope, and creative possibility. They overpowered me and only when they knew I had linked my soul with theirs did they let me finish my trek home. Their chant haunts: “Not Yet Not Yet! Not Yet! Not Yet!”
“We Are Not Going Back!”
- Kamala Harris, and millions of other souls-
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