Mark Antony Rossi's poetry, criticism, fiction and photography have appeared in The Antigonish Review, Another Chicago Review, Bareback Magazine, Black Heart Review, Collages & Bricolages, Enclave, Expound, GloMag, Gravel, Flash Fiction, Japanophile, On The Rusk, Purple Patch, Scrivener Creative Review, Sentiment Literary Journal, The Sacrificial ,Wild Quarterly and Yellow Chair Review.
Tomb of the Unregistered Voter
Is there anyone left who actually believes in Democracy? Why should we when self interest tears at the heart of human decency? Why should we when special interest devours the efforts of an entire community? You cast your ballot and see what changes. Only the faces change, the lies remain the same.
Your lie and my lie melted into a blown-dry guy ready to forget whatever he told us moments ago. You know it's true: one man, one vote is the engine of untruth. And no, no, no, women have not changed the system. They lie with the best of them. That's what passes as Equality today.
Is there some better government out there today? Communism proved it was more false religion than political utopia. Scratch that one. Socialism cannot suppress the ambitions of the average man. No one deep down inside truly wants to spread the wealth. Fascism needs and creates too many enemies for it to take a firm hold on power. Monarchy is absolutely dependent on divine rights to legitimize itself. We all believe in God until it costs us something. Plus, why should inbred geeks live in tax-free castles?
What you have been suspecting is true: Democracy is a half-truth sold to half-wits fairly satisfied with a spin that convinces them someone is less than deserving. Call this spin whatever you wish: advertising, movies, racism, fashion, etc. Each serves together the same Master. The darkness that dwells within. The fear demanding security at any price. The hate commanding fear to find a scapegoat. The scapegoat selected through a roulette-like process---them yesterday, you today, maybe the others tomorrow.
What does any of this matter? You know its true but still proclaim not to believe. The last generation betrayed us all; their rebellion an act of vanity. Speak of them with anger and disgust and you further understand our history. This generation a lost tribe breast-fed music television has little hope at redeeming anything but soda bottles. What does any of this matter? Your desire to leave small towns is motivated by stupid fantasy. The manufactured dreams of executives anxious to use your dumb bodies as fodder for the latest ad campaign.
Join us here, friends, soulless suburbia is crowded with spent victims already discarded by cash machines. You prefer to call them parents. But we know them as older examples of what you shall become. And we can't wait for you to join our army of walking dead. Sign your name, impart your number, machines munch millions a second. Never too crowded for another wandering brat about to turn into tomorrow's headline, deadline and bloodline. You've stepped out of a tired town into sleepless land, the ever-expanding tomb of the unregistered voter.