This Is How It Ends
"I sadly smiling remember that the flower fades to make fruit, the fruit rots to make earth. Out of the mother; and through the spring exultances, ripeness and decadence; and home to the mother. . ." --Robinson Jeffers, "Shine, Perishing Republic" Waiting at bus stops, crossing the street; sitting in cafes, lined up in their cars outside the fast-food; perhaps they'll look up from their mind control devices, vaguely distracted by the sudden white hot brightness, as if the oven door just popped open. All the world in a fresh young girl taking a selfie. They won't see it coming. The great shining majority, cloaked in the warm viscera of their make-believe, will roll on to the finish, oblivious of the reasons; a people for whom books had become tedious, old fashioned; their thoughts permanently distracted, their ears shut tight to the music of truth, they had all they needed-- instant gratification at their fingertips. And it fit in their pockets! News had become soap opera, a sports event like kick-boxing or monster truck jams; their leaders talked like super-heroes or comic book gangsters. Thus, unburdened by history, facts, how easily molded they had become, how willing they were to conform, to go along, to be lead by any glittering grifter skilled in the art of deception, the trustworthy trumpeter calmly leading them over the cliff. So it came to be: the fruit finally rotted and returned to the mother; the republic that once shone so brightly darkened and perished.