the lost man chronicles
the daily chronicle
nothing but my timorous imagination
This morning, as we rolled down the elevated eastern bank of the Hudson, I imagined the moment when I would look across the River to a flat Manhattan, a city without an erection, the metropolis of all metropolii castrated spitefully by fanatical fundamentalists who, with bitter gall, decimate the promethean dreams of millions by bringing down the empire state to its knees with a single inimical swath of a scythe that swipes out the proud pinnacle that once touched the sky, piqued the heavens, inspired awe—and instilled a false sense of foolish pride, imperial accomplishment and haughty determination in the horde of the huddled drones that once filed to and fro below, frantically passing at the base of this stalwart monument positioned against the horizon and stealing the fire that was once the sole privy of the gods.
Swerving about the curve of 46 degrees, we eased into the tunnel, the Orphic orifice that once commuted so many of the aspiring to better destinies, but now merely threatens to lead the resigned toward a judgment day imposed before its time. Here at the mouth of the grimy inferno, I closed my eyes, as I do each time I surmise I am entering the end, and consoled my soul in silence as we shuttled through onto toward the light, the salvation of illuminating grace which lies at the other end of this bridge underwater, the photogenic cue that allows us to begin anew as we emerge from bowels of the earth, and allow the sun to give birth to hope once again.
Then, once I’ve scurried across the dirty and pungent streets and back into the steel and concrete trap of the landmark corporate building I work in, I just sit and wait. While colleagues sit and debate where and when, and everyone feeds the fire of nerve-wracking, composure-attacking over-anxiety, of having survived the day we shall not forget, of letting virulent jihads and crusades against manifest destiny and the audacity of western sovereigns vying to maintain their dipsticks in crude oil , siphoning the soul from mother earth to feed the greed in the name of “progress” and the voracious egos of those who populate her surface; while all this is happening we just quack like sitting ducks or like humpty-dumpty waiting upon the wall, awaiting the fall of the evil empire that fissures a crack in its royal head, that push-to-bush that topples the crown to the ground, and shatters the crass righteousness which neither allies nor a brazen attitude can put back together again.
They’re now saying the data that prompted the panic and alert is dated, and thus the enemy’s intentions may be dead. Hence, instead of ushering the doom, let’s hope than that this delusion of impending gloom was thus for naught, and nothing but a wrought of my timorous imagination.
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