Nostalgia for the Absolute

Nostalgia for the absolute, and there is a man taking off his shoe and chucking it at the President. Some would call him the leader of the free world, this one shoed wonder.

Nostalgia for the absolute, and I can’t quite remember in stand by me who the kid was who got hit by the train, that absence at the center who prompts the great crusade, a twin to John Cusack, the dead brother. Dead kids and dead brothers and crazy one eared anomalies who are lost to the dustbins of history but not the angels who hover silently.

Nostalgia for the absolute, when conviction and faith existed, back in the centuries when cathedrals were being built and dissenters were being defenestrated. Men feared witches and burnt women.  If there is one fixed constellation in our constitutional system, it is that craven myopic egomaniacs will elevate rent seeking above play acting at nostalgia. the atomic absolute succumbed to quarks and color and spin and gluons, but not before god rolled snake eyes.

I could spew out more, like quarters plugged into a meter, so long as we have meters and quarters and the concept of parking isn’t displaced by the concept of compassionate coups and dioramas of L-shaped battle structures with battalions filled with okies, Bronx tough guys, and quiet spoken killers from The dakotas.

Nostalgia for the absolute, or else parenthood didn’t happen and all the false stories we told around the campfire are but instantiated metonyms for our multigenerational sins. The price of progress is a relative field onto which those who lack class map out fatalities and those who can’t help themselves do not fear to tread before ending up dead. Like all the rest of us.