It has been dark for hours now here in Munich, as we trudge into the long, dark nights of the dying year.
Short daylight hours, haunted with grim and grisly news. Our era, lit up but not illuminated, by twenty four/seven artificial light. Perpetual media distractions at our fingertips. Nature banished. Communal experience atomised. Mind held by Mephistophelian illusion that immortality and eternal life are tantamount.
We attempt to grieve, but remain empty, by means of the same Mephistophelian illusion that has left us estranged from the beating heart of earthly life, from Anima Mundi, from our own hearts that when wounded by the knowledge of our own powerlessness before inexorable time and irreversible mortality bleed lambent light and beat in plangent cadences.
Conversely, the US blues/gospel/folk tradition captures the cadences of grief wrought by the knowledge of the vastness of creation, within which unfolds the tragic dance between the fragility of human life and the reality of ever present human folly. This ballad by the Carter Family defines the form and reveals what has been scoured away by Mephistophelian light. (Songs about trains are about anything but trains.)
White, male, Western civilisation [sic] was created by genocidal conquer-lust and its attendant imperialist aggression and plunder.
The acts of mass murder being perpetrated by White males in the US are a reflection of a culture that used guns to create itself. As Malcolm X averred, the chickens have come home to roost, and if there does not arrive a rendezvous with reality and a an honest reckoning with the fact, the Law Of Perpetual Homicidal Poultry Returns will continue, ad infinitum.
Just like with Nixon, impeachment of the orange-tinged shit-tsunami Trump would mean nothing. Why? It would do the sum total of zilch to end the Democrat/Republican duopoly that fronts the US dictatorship of money and police/military imperium. In fact, it would have the opposite effect, it would reenforce the same lie promulgated after Nixon’s resignation — to wit, the system worked. Time to move on. Withal, Trump is a symptom – along with the Democratic Party leadership, their minions and obtuse partisans – not the disease.
Image by Dan Booth. Not to be reproduced without express prior permission.
Phil Rockstroh is a poet, lyricist and philosopher bard living in New York City.
Yet a bio amounts to dharma for dimwits: It defines a human being in the same manner and degree of veracity as a restaurant menu describes the various slabs of meat offered … commodified things that were once living beings.