It doesn’t happen
All at once.
A steady erosion of
Humanity, kindness, empathy.
Norms obliterated,
One small, aberrant action at a time.
A desolate
Emptiness remains.
The victors celebrate
Everyone’s destruction.
Arguing untenable
Positions,
Pretending that
Extremity is normality,
Criminality inconsequential.
Rationality is not a
Part of this conversation.
All that remains is a
Raw desire to
Crush the opposition,
Revel in power
Without regard for
Anyone, anything, anytime.
It’s not that they’re
Not making money,
They’re making fistfuls
Of it, it’s just that they’re
Not making as much money
As they’d like to.
As has been shown
Time and again:
They can never make
Enough money,
No matter what
The cost.
Those devoted to creating
A world where every person
Fends for himself
(It’s always himself)
Never think beyond their
Next acquisition, their base
Hunger temporarily sated
By whatever petty victory
Convulses in front of them,
A dark scheme promising
Plenty of suffering and
Pleasurable moral tales
To make them feel good
About their depravity.
Having reached a position of
Considerable affluence and influence,
He begins constructing an
Origin myth about how he made
Everything happen himself due
To his extraordinary talent and
Superhuman efforts, unlike the
Rest of those lazy slobs
Who are unworthy of success.
For all he cares, they can
Keep toiling away in his factories,
Relegated to their station in life,
Beneath the exceptional people.
They fight vigorously for
Her right to attend
The school, blaming
Her shortcomings on the
Meager allowances made for
Human beings who have been
Methodically and mercilessly
Oppressed by people
Who see them as inferior
And strive to maintain the
Supremacy they’ve always
Enjoyed over them,
False struggle,
Unearned privilege.
She gleefully tells her
Class of college students
That she’s a proud
Believer in all things
Reactionary,
At once telegraphing
What she believes
And what she fears.
Nobody says anything,
The already indoctrinated smile,
Others sit in silent horror or
Perhaps boredom from
Having heard the
Same tired speech
So many times.
Shocked,
But accompanied by
A now-familiar sense
Of resignation,
She pays her insurance
Premium, the one she
Was so happy about,
The one that was
Supposed to
Make her life easier,
The one that has gone
Up worrisomely in
Only one year,
Not subject to any
Controls, just like
Everything else she
Has to buy to live.
A barely charismatic buffoon
Captures the narrow
Imagination of malcontents
Who yearn for a return
To the good old days
When they could insult
Anyone they wanted to
And impose their will
On anyone who didn’t
Look like them.
Nationalistic cries
Generating an autonomic
Response of hatred and
Complete lack of hope.
