“And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard and it’s a hard, it’s a hard rain gonna fall.”
Halle-freaking-fallujah! Well, it looks like Mr. (political) Death’s going to be able to tell us how much he likes our blue-eyed boy; Tom-Tom (Drums of Moria) Delay. The Witch-King of Angmar is headed south. Mr. Earle, your friends may not call you ‘Speedo’ but ‘comprehensive’ will do, oh yes indeedy.....oh yes indeedy do.
What did it take friends and neighbor? Oh to have been a fly on the wall. Can you imagine what it took for a D.A. in Texas; in Texas!!! to come through with this? Kudos Mr. Earle!!!
And presently comes the redoubtable Patrick Fitzgerald; careful, cautious, ‘ducks in a row’, relentless, minutiae crunching, soon-to-be man of the hour. Did Hollywood handle this? Who’s scripting the time line to bring all these goodies to the table at the dinner hour, piping hot und mit untrueglichem urteil! Is the Plame Affair a Ludlum redux? And.........
What is this; Bill Frist stutter-stepping round the cowpies stinking on the Capitol steps? Yahooooooooooo! It’s a Newt Gingrich turnaround of the first order!
When you indict a member of Congress you can’t just waltz in with circumstantial. You can’t just have a little proof. You have to have ten times the proof needed for the lumpen proles. And so they must do. And so they must have. Oh, they may not get Frist but, then again, ‘once’ they’ve nailed Delay to the barn door and once they’ve nailed ‘pigboy’ Rove up along side him, the perception of possibility becomes more pronounced and.....sail on you bright beautiful justice system; all but dead in the water after Florida 2000. Am I schadenfreudial here? You bet I am.
The degree of injustice, rank venality and ‘in-your-face’ hubris of this administration is coming home to roost. It’s winking like Las Vegas neon overhead with one of those arrows flashing and flowing downward, pointing at the top of the heads of the stolen nation. Everything is now in alto relievo.
Step by step, inch by inch......oh yeah.....all the lies; all the shared international anguish, all the blasted bodies, bombs bursting in air collected together in a damning collage held together by blood and shit that you don’t see in this quantity outside of a 70’s era bathhouse. Am I hard, hard as the rain? Am I lacking in compassion and understanding of the tough choices of government? Am I missing the beam in my own eye? You’d need an eye the size of Katrina’s to contain the beam in this administration’s sclera.
I feel prophetic in my description of the dike of shit-bricks in my last essay. Who would have thought it? They skated so long, with nary a wrinkle they couldn’t sail around or sail over. Now it seems that it’s coming from all directions; what a fantastic orchestration. What a crowd of dovetails and the housing bubble due to burst any day. I am in awe of this, this divine process. I must call it divine. There is too much serendipity here. Halle-freaking-fallujah!
People, I don’t want to be a raging inferno. I don’t want to be Savonarola with my words and phrases dressed up like the pope at The Hookers Ball. I don’t like flaming across the page, half righteous indignation and half storming the Bastille; like I don’t have a chorus line of skeletons in my own closet. I want to sit by the ocean and watch the timeless process of the waters fluid ease. I want to sun bathe on the rocks of time and skinny-dip in the pools of infinity. I want to dance with the goddess in the empty desert under countless radiant stars. I don’t want to be elbow deep in guts and offal.
Now, as I watch it all come together; minus the "I told you so."; long overdue- darkest before dawn- but coming... I am in wondrous awe at that mysterious justice that grinds so exceedingly small.
Tom Delay is finished, stick a fork in him. There is no President Frist in your future and Karl Rove and the whole Cheney; dirty-tricks, family tree is on its way to the pulp mill. What are these people saying to each other right now? What are they thinking? God this is Shakespearean. Now comes the ugly feasting. Now come the whores who mulched the news and served it up each day. Now we will watch them turn on their masters. You got to watch the bottom line. It’s a safe harbor in the king’s harem when the king is unchallenged; except for the sex of course but these people swallowed their distaste along with all of the rest of it a long time ago.
The most disgusting crack-whores in the whole tawdry affair are the democrats. They will never have my support again...except; damn you Les you beaten dog wagging your tail again. Even now they dance at the edge of the margins; school yard sissies with their nuts retracted into the abdominal cavity. Let’s not forget the democrats when we get to the buffet table. Let us hold them in every bit as much scorn as we do the republicans. Let’s not forget Ms. Fence Straddler Clinton and Mr. No-See-um Kerry. God, doesn’t Al Gore look good now? I ALWAYS liked Al Gore. It’s too damn bad he’s a democrat.
People... all of you, let’s get it together; republicans, democrats, independents. Let’s open our eyes! Let’s find our common brotherhood and ‘seal the door where evil dwells’. I have raged against America. I have scorned this materialistic society of cavalier consumers; you latte drinking. People Magazine reading, Oprah-watching, right wing radio listening pack of callous fools but... I am a beaten dog. I love you and I am chained to my love. I can’t abandon you no matter how hard I try. You are my brothers and sisters. You are my family. Please wake up. Please wake up and put out the fire and rebuild the house.
I weep for you. I stand here shouting and waving and being a general pain-in-the-ass and just wishing you’d let me in. I only want to stand by the door and guard. I don’t want to be paid or admired. I want to admire. I want to be proud in that non-bombastic flag-waving way that is part and portion of the natural appreciation of the angels of our better nature when we honestly strive to make them shine. I just wish you weren’t so goddamn selfish and blind. It’s not too late. We can collectively stand and say we are sorry. We can be better than we are. We can have real heroes, not scumbags. We could....... We could.
I don’t hate these people. I just don’t understand them. I don’t understand hurting other people because I am so fucking selfish that I think it is okay to hog the world’s resources and pollute the landscape and kill without reason or remorse in lands abroad. We talk a lot about our generosity. We presume upon the idea of some imagined greatness. We posture and prance when we should bow our heads for real instead of genuflecting like whitened sepulchers for the poor rewards of an audience who is as fickle as their gratitude from the last kickback. We act, we pretend. We take the Pat Tillman within us and we shame and then murder him.
If we can’t be honest with ourselves we can hardly expect that we will be honest with others; especially when we make a virtue out of thieving and lying. We’re better than this. We are better than the poor examples screaming from the headlines. We are better than the arm-twisting bullies that we have become. Don’t let the hard work of generations be lost in such ignoble behavior. Try harder and offer more. What goes around comes around.
'Shallow Graves' is track no. 3 of 7 on Visible and The Critical List's 1987 album
'The Pope of Rock and Roll'
About this song (pops up)