Fanning the Flames

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They never flinched when
the polychromatic peacock dung
hit the Chinese Dynasty fan
in a rainbow of aqua blues
and carmines, off-whites
and soot blacks. They cheered
as “real life” overcame
the fancified image there on
the crescent field of paper.
But this flapping artifice stood
folded and folded and folded again,
each crease one upon the other,
distorting its true image,
hiding slices of itself no matter
if viewed from this angle or that,
never showing you the whole picture.
Was I being cynical seeing
just another colorful load of shit
shot onto a piece of paper
prettied up for public consumption,
a brittle, yellowed air-pusher
given esteem because someone said
it was expensive?
Really, it’s not that much different
from the ones all the carny preachers
sell in their sweaty tent-meetings
where these stem-winders reflect
a cracked mirror image back
to the already converted.

I’m a old cynic who learned to hate politics (both lower and upper case P) as a baby reporter.  This piece could apply to all sides in the battle of the hyperbolic self-flapping fans for the hearts and minds of the overheated faithful. I’m done.

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