Good Luck Tomorrow, America…

The stoicism that settled over both camps might have been akin to courage in the face of battle, or simply weary, bone-tired acquiescence in what must be.

It was close to life.

It was close to death.

It was belief in the candidates’ individual powers to embody the country.

It was the belief that neither candidate sufficiently embodied anything resembling the roots of America.

It was the headstone of the hero repaid with the garland of democracy in action.

It was the graveyard of democracy.

It was every war the country ever fought come home to peacefully nest in the hat the old lady wears to the neighborhood school where she will cast her vote.

It was a repudiation of all past sacrifice, and an invitation to coming civil war.

It was the intellectual energy of Jefferson and Hamilton transmogrified.

It was the absence of intellect.

It was the distillation of John Locke.

It was a lunatic Twitter account.

It was the first amendment of the U.S. Constitution.

What is the first amendment of the U.S. Constitution?

It was America reinventing itself like a rock-blues-jazz fusion band with Paul Gonsalves on sax, Jimi Hendrix on guitar, Mississippi John Hurt on vocals, and Mickey Hart on drums.

It was elevator music.



Don’t say that.


It was not elevator music.

It was many things, this place, all of them competing for attention, symphonic, atonal, rhapsodic, romantic, swindling, opportunistic, screaming, shrieking, teetering at the edge of autocracy now, now extending the boundaries of democracy, flirting with dynasty, dynamic with destiny, interplanetary industrious intriguing, laughing at itself with every subliminal slogan, teasing poetry, testing the terrain of the last speeding train of conscious thought where all the faces you ever love come back and stare at you like the face of you and me and of the dead and of those who will evermore be America.

God bless you, beloved exasperating country.

(Don’t forget to vote!)




Good Luck Tomorrow, America…