A Song of Dispair

They came full bore like Mongols from the east following the scent of blood and there was panic in the room as they counted and played. "This will be bad; such sorrow, such sorrow," someone said aloud, though that someone was probably me. That which I had not read in histories I had seen before -- the broken dreams and shattered skulls and bloodied limbs strewn about pell mell like tinsel on a Christmas tree. And the distended faces of the wailing and the rending of garments! Women lamented and huddled by the cold steel walls, and the dust rose as the invaders beat and stomped in time and chanted themes of intimidation and slaughter.



Michael Jordan -- a name fit to boil blood and steam the innards of the weak and infirm. The tales of woe handed down from block to bock rang true in our primitive minds and animal urges took control: TO DANCE, to scream and shout and experience the suffering and horror of generations past; the denial of self -- the hivemind. Would we be bold enough to beat back the savage display of carnal, base ritual or would be assimilated into their ranks, any past remnants of our culture swallowed like the children of Saturn.



The promise of our survival was short lived. Some fell to the floor and struggled to stand only to fall again, weak as a fresh foal before the butcher and timid as a three-legged sheep before wolves. Those that fled -- God save them -- were left to sow their crops amongst the pitious cowards and fancy-boys who lay like fallen busts in orderly rows in the garden with their clove cigarettes.



When it was over we were converted -- we were helpless to protect ourselves from their will and succumbed to the raging sea. In the silence that followed there was peace and the sun shined behind us and a songbird twitterchirped in the rustling trees. They had gone. We looked on each other with shame and disgust -- we looked at ourselves and felt soiled -- unclean.

Michael Jordan raped us.