I feel the despair of the coming trauma when a bush league ploy robs us of another president. My hand goes to my head, rubs my temples and grabs my hair. I am trying to reach into my mind for an explanation of this discomforting ache. Watching the faces of Hillary forces something to haunt me from within -- something that will swallow me, feast on me, consume me.
Searching the remnants of broken American dreams, I find the lurking phantom that cackles at discovery. It bears the likeness of the smirking gargoyles that have turned on their duty to protect and instead use the citizens as prey for game and feed.
Hillary no longer has the distinct face in my memories. Her image is morphed into a Limbaugh mold whose tongue produces poisoned spittle. When I see her smile as if she has a secret ace, it is as though I am watching a Bush assurance of supreme court judges peeping out of pockets. Her eyes appear to reflect the blood of our dead laying on the oiled sands of an Arabian desert while a Cheney counts. Her hands seem to belong to a Rovian hand shake in darkened alleys.
It is all one being, one force, one creature threatening to linger forever on our land.
I turn towards the light that beams from a black man who has the face of a protector and I hope that there is enough fight to deliver us from the past. It is the audacity of desire for a better country and the hope for a better world.