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I
stared into Fydor’s wrinkled face as he spoke
in tongues of eternal existential nothingness.
Slowly he began chanting an ancient Babylonian prayer.
Trembling like a man holding a divining stick,
he whispered, “The war to end all war must now begin.”
His eyes rolled upward into his head
his face cracked into a war map of a myriad wrinkles.
Wrinkles folded into wrinkles, wars folded into wars
and night folded into night until in a prophetic voice
he expostulated forth: “The last best hope for mankind
can be found in Forbes Magazine.”
“Outsourcing”---he burbled.
“Downsizing”---he moaned.
“It it’s so simple.
I am surprised George didn’t think of it.”
He extended a hoary finger Godward.
“We must outsource our government.
Send all our politicians & political pimps
to other countries. Very poor countries.
Countries where they can‘t afford to go to war.”
Fydor giggled
&
began to float about the room.
“We will send the Clintons to Bangladesh & Bush to Burma.
And then, for mere pennies on the dollar,
in a kind of corporate raid,
we snatch up the government politicians of Costa Rica,
import all of them here to run America. "
Bouncing off the ceiling
Fydor began to hiccup.
He shouted down to me.
“Then and only then
will we have peace in our time.”
Hiccupping & laughing he slid under the door
disappearing into the perfect darkness
of America.
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