Saturday, January 22, 2011

Noon as...

High noon in DC...Another State of the Union Address, more words than straight talk, more magic moments than Mr. Wooley and yet it is tradition, an American tradition. The President stands alone with a speech, yet spoken, the meaning trapped within the print and the point is without compass.

America has had its share of great orators, writers, humorists, philanthropists, statesman formed from the soil of liberty and freedom, but not bound in it's definition of liberty. Politicians on the other hand, tend to empty the hand that feeds them. A world of mind and temperance, that was once a representation of it's constitution and thus limited by such. All hail Hailstone! Do not ask what Moronica can do for you, but what you can do for Moronica! The State of the Union is the state of the political, morass and blow by.

Our money is fuel for political gain; there are no words left that can explain the extent of such representative dementia. Stealing the dust from your sweat, the politicos have a short time to represent, what amounts to a stake in your capital, by enumerating their powers. Like it or not, it is reality and not an extension of the existential. Paperback or hardcover, the book is written as needed. Just change to language, steal it's meaning, flog the story and beat it down until it is no longer written, and it's pages are reduced to the pound.

No longer a state of union, we have become what amounts to statements about union; and some where inside of the house, together we gather before the mall and remember, that divided we can fall. We shower with praise what we have done, remembering not to forget what is yet to come, sometimes I forget, to remember, that I like my eggs sunny side up; and always before the high that is noon.

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