PREAMBLE:
Since conventions are instruments of popular entertainment, they create characters. If the congress legitimized the heroism of Mister Yo’s genocide, with an ovation paid for by taxpayers, the convention revived the political orgy of an organized crime. It celebrated an aesthetic fascism with a failed democratic mask. There was a congressional ovation for weapons of mass destruction that deny a ceasefire. Here the disgust of a disposable heroism triumphed.
Note for a pre-heading on redundancy:
Please review Chris Hedges’ latest essay on cultural, environmental, ecological and humanitarian genocide. At the time of the crime, no difference was made between a poet, a journalist, a teacher, a child on his way to his first daycare or a medical laboratory. The theory of hate does not create priorities. Instruments of ethnic cleansing do not know the organic laws of human sensitivity.
DEDICATION:
Despite the Convention, there are still some characters who remain alive. They are:
Kamala Harris (Candidate for President of the United States of America)
Ruwa Romman (Michigan Representative)
Michelle Obama (Former First Lady)
And many anonymous beings here.
CULTURAL ESSAY
The hypothetical Convention served to create a theory of the conventional spirit of late summer democracy. It was a fireworks display. We do not know how many democratic parties were created and disappeared simultaneously during 3 days of selective exclusion and inclusion. America is rich in the apocalyptic adventure of happiness. Each speaker came from an inner cell of the lost paradise. The podium resisted the sweat on the hands.
The cream on the skin did not prevent the “open” microphone from being useless. The anti-establishment clenched their fists in victory. Those most outraged by the democratic eviction cried on the margins or grew morally, humiliated by the tacit rise of uncertainty.
Once inside and silenced by the congregation of the chambers, they shone so that the embarrassment of the settlers of the denied officialdom would disappear. The antiheroes were only actors paid to carry out the drama of an intimate comedy. I was wrong. I retract my doubts. They were not conventionally armed. They displayed the prerogatives and gestures of the heads of state of the great party of the proclamation of the first woman that chance and the decadence of the monotony of masculinity, predestined to direct the circus of complicity. The violence of decadence had escaped from their hands.
Official monogamy remained the ethical health of the cosa nostra. In these folkloric circles it is dangerous to challenge the failed virtue of polygamy. The wise men of civil society return to their lairs without being judged by history. There is no double convention: There are endless deficient Conventions, democratically infected by the parliamentary crisis of security agencies that have not functioned for some time.
If there were two, there would be one graffiti on the many blackboards, invented for the world. There is a virtual audience for this convention, perfect makeup, official voices, conventional gestures, expensive perfume to denounce the lie of political otherness. There is a formality of ridiculousness to strip the dark shadows of the protocol of the perpetual script. Official characters no longer surprise or frighten. Every 4 years a political theater is inaugurated to defend the status quo of the corporations that finance the game of Armageddon.
There was undoubtedly a marginal convention, delegitimized for the so-called People’s Convention to live. Discipline had been established by digital mandate. God was aware of the gestures. The indignant resisted on the margins. The old signs of political modesty were observed. Democracy knows where to wash the dirty laundry of its ineffable candor. There is enough honor in participating in the Convention. It does not matter if Ukraine crosses the borders of Lenin’s footsteps or if political hitmen attack revolutionary terrorism.
There are enough cockroaches in the Arms of the empire. For all kinds of agreements, a Convention is missing. The land of the Messiah of uprooting is not so holy. He is not found in any prison. He has not been shot at point-blank range. There is no degraded version under the rubble of laughter. There should be no talk of genocide or of the heroes of the last Nagba. The apostles were arrested and shot for fiction. No one is credited with the sombre heroic act of demolishing the sources of knowledge.
Childhood is seen as a potential future danger. In theory, both children and pregnant mothers represented a questioning of future generations massacred by the West. The truth industry does not deliver enough death certificates. There is no longer a poet to denounce the stormy stay in the grounds of nothingness. I am playing with fire. I am making literature of the beauty of dysfunctional delegations.
Blessed are those who can open their mouths in the privacy of bloodbaths, at the end of the toast in the bars. The theory of pain only caresses the skin of the oppressor. Here is chlorine for the cassock. The costumes of the Comedy are washed at will. The lackeys say long live the Convention. It doesn’t matter if there are red ties or delirium of whiteness in the silk gloves. The Convention is a lie applauded as a beautiful tragedy. It is diaphanous in its poetics of lucidity.
It doesn’t cure the metaphysical itch. There is always a betrayal that has no parallel. The parrots talked for 72 hours. Disillusionment was proclaimed as the triumph of an unseasoned happiness. I have already painted the closed fist of a sordid tear. I heard the flag waving of a gagged voice. The marginalized said From the River to the sea. And there is no sea or river for the shadows that flee. There is no drinking water for the humanitarian sediments. There is no imaginary cemetery for those who left on foot. There is no psychology of humiliation for the kidnappers of the convention.
The official convention is false. The irreverent one is democratic. Who legalizes the lie? There is no birth for those born after a gunshot. The convention does not recognize my absence. It only applauds the lie of a better tomorrow. I brought the myth of a symbolic redemption. Western democracy makes its way through wars. It caresses this unbearable shame.
There are drums with Kamala. There are güiras and accordion to celebrate her resistance. I do not believe in the Convention. An imaginary actress discovered that there is a double standard in the land of Jesus. There is a Mohammed imprisoned under the rubble of history. The Romans of today have returned to proclaim silence. There is an unbearable convention among the rubble of a crime organized since the dawn of history.
Question the peace agreements of the union of the Pharisees of the first world. Democracy floats on the bloody tourism of civilization. I do not believe in theological convention. They did not let me speak after the Ovation of the genocide of tears. Who finances the disappearance of morality? Who banishes the dictionary of the last Republic? Tell it to the ashes of Pericles. Do not come to me with lies. The Convention is a tale of liberals and conservatives. There is no need for more doctors of the law in the middle of the Sanhedrin…
Use:
The last correction was made in the emergency room of the Bronx Lebanon Hospital. The pain of the disinherited helps to create an unprecedented lucidity. I like to write in cemeteries where death leaves an aesthetic murmur and in parks that frighten walkers or in the morgues of heroism. The author signed at the beginning. Until next time.
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