This is what they call a “mood piece”.
Roone Howard was the best strategist to ever write a political ad.
He could convince starving men that entitlements were bad;
He could make you self-disenfranchise to prevent voter-fraud;
It is said that he made the Holy Spirit believe there wasn’t a God.
If you employed him, your head would lie easy underneath of its crown;
Because he would lie easy to cut all of your challengers down!
But if you opposed him; then may Heaven have pity on you,
For he’d tell your fam’ly and friends you weren’t anything like who they knew.
Oh, no one likes to hear it said,
But he could paint McCarthy “Red”
If that’s what was needed to serve the empowered.
By stroking feelings barbaric,
Or stressing facts esoteric,
No one persuaded like that Devil, Roone Howard!
One day, his most prominent client, a National candidate, came to see him and ask
Him to set about working on what he reckoned a well-nigh impossible task.
His opponent, it seemed, was lovely and charismatic with a great reputation;
She wore her good deeds and record like armor against character assassination.
She spoke like a Cicero, and was quite incorruptible; her personal life was above suspicion;
While Howard’s client was deficient in every category but that of ruthless ambition.
So old Roone Howard set straight to work on how to stain and destroy and annihilate
The political chances of this candidate with the resume seemingly so inviolate.
For weeks on end did he toil,
Burning each night the midnight oil
As for any shred of a scandal he scoured.
But never even a trace
Of shamefulness or disgrace
Ever met the eye of the clever Roone Howard.
At last, just when all hope seemed utterly lost, Howard hit on an ingenious scheme.
He at once called a meeting to announce the whole plan to his political team.
“’As ours is a business that’s dirty and vile,” this political Clausewitz reasoned,
“A lady this good has no place in it–let it go instead to a man tough and seasoned.
This, gentlemen, I feel is a message which our cynical populace is bound to feel true!”
He proved to be right! In a matter of weeks, the lady in question up and withdrew.
Howard’s man could then run unopposed, and his targeted office he easily won;
Howard was given a government job, and the lady they’d beaten could find herself none.
O, Howard took comfort, I’m sure,
That he’d destroyed someone so pure;
And laughed at her whose votes his campaign devoured.
For even perfection complete
Couldn’t hope to compete
Against the devious mind of that scoundrel, Roone Howard!
All of us dressed in our Witch-Sabbath best
To celebrate Halloween’s coming.
There was the Countess Villette and her one-eyed pet
Hosting that mad night of mumming.
There was the fiery hell-cat, in her black pointed hat,
And a lumbering mountainous man.
There was the old gypsy crone, and a creature unknown
Who looked like a doll from Japan.
O! Not even the Devil could imagine that revel;
That cosmic costume soirée of the weird.
Its ghoulish appeal was so very surreal
And nothing was what it appeared.
We laughed and we danced, and all were entranced
As if by some powerful hex.
The fiendish fell spell could be felt down to Hell;
A cocktail of madness and laughter and sex.
Then the clock struck thirteen, and with that, Halloween
Had ended as fast as it came.
And everyone vanished–the occult magic was banished,
And once more, all was quiet and tame.
In the warm October e’en, the young man sits
And dreams of her he set his heart upon.
By the fading light of the fire pits,
In the gentle wind, all low and wan–
He fancies she is here with him
As his companion and his lover.
And though the light grows ever dim,
And the blue and gloomy clouds roll over–
For a moment, it’s as if they are together
Cuddling close beside the pulsing embers;
Braving all the world’s forbidding weather.
But then–alas! The lad remembers–
Remembers ev’rything that went before.
And dwells upon what he regretteth most.
And then he is alone again once more;
And she is gone, like a fleeting Autumn ghost.
Upon the verdant fields, the summer sun shines bright and warm.
And from behind the hill, the sound of cheerful chatter rises.
Yet, ‘neath the tranquil mask, there hides a heart all black and filthy
Pumping out the wretched blood that this facade disguises.
Upon these lovely fields, the very souls are sacrificed
To those damned Gods who dwell in other horrid spheres.
Behind the people’s laughter is a growl, inhuman and unholy,
Of something in the shadows that grows hungry as it hears
The poor unthinking wretches who frolic in its thrall.
Beneath the chiming bells, the passer-by may see its soul:
The ossified remains of carnivores and monsters
A-dragged up from some old and stinking wormy hole.
The pretty city brims with personalities so witty,
Who, recalling naught of times gone past,
Celebrate the future, knowing it can never come,
And optimism is the only thing to last.
But off the shore there lies the glinting lizard eyes
Awaiting as the predator the fateful opportunity.
For howsoever far civilizations come
There remain those lacking in remorse or pity.
Guided by the cosmic laws, by no ideas or cause,
There loom the claws of obsolescence.
From somewhere across the bay seems to come
A fearful, frightful wail of demoniac essence.
But neither God nor Devil could long becalm the revel,
But perhaps they did not want or need to.
For all these things must end, howe’er that end must come;
It cometh no matter what the revelers do.
In spite of their political biases, newsmagazines
Often have some excellent photographs.
I once saw a picture of the seaside that
Might have been an impressionist painting.
The truth of course is much more ugly.
Even the sea lies.
“All forks in the road are as knives in the flesh”,
Said the Commander to his men.
The Enemy approaches, binding us with blood,
Yet I know my loyalty must be to my love.
But faced with the choice of my love or
my hunger, which to choose?
And so I am a courier, a runner,
And I’m back in the ancient tomb,
And the ruin’d palace, and the museum,
And the casino, and the farmlands,
And my choice is the same as it ever was;
Between power and love. Yet!—
Perhaps it is no choice at all. I may
Have both, or neither. Such is the
Nature of things that choices appear
As if they were not. And I still see
Her hair, and her eyes and her body
And her shoes.
The clock is digital, so there is no ticking,
Only the sound of the battery.
I shudder as I gaze into the simmering
Void that mocks my existence,
And I fear death, not because I wish to live,
But because I cannot lose my thoughts of her.
I steady myself. The minds of Gods and Goddesses
Dead or Never Living seem to reach me.
Left or Right or otherwise
Make the move.