Political Journalism - Who knew?

The political machine.
The inanimate come to life.
The conventional flag wave.

Cormorants on pitched roofs watch the ship of state mandate folded twice over. This coming one-two march through a landscape. The dark relative against the brilliance of the last act of some staged production. The cast bows. A tape player click, click, clicks. Some kind of clock. A unit of measurement.

What in the picture would you get rid of?

The land that stretches back to prehistoric times?
Icecaps and etcetera?
The atmosphere?
The human body?

All of the above?

All but the latter? You’d like to keep human as an aspect of the formula but rid it of its grappling ambition to destroy? Good luck with that.

What does it mean to have a point of view? What does it mean to have a notable achievement? To succeed in representing the nuances of a determinate activity? Listen: however events turn out, if we want to we can continue to see the moon as an outburst of lyric, a vision of John Keats and his friends, but still we have the battle to fight.

Long after we are gone we can say we were here. We were working, wittingly or not, towards the eventual erosion of places ground down and fought over, especially in the literal sense — exploitation and industrial damage.

There will be that unsullied moment, down to the last detail, when the acquired interview and other quaint signs of demise will speak about us to the flood and the fire.

Election day is like no other.