Poor king CO MA DI, slyly, with a Cheshire smile that assures himself we can’t possibly be on to him, vainly tries to place himself beyond the past. But, manifesting a noteworthy lack of self recognition, he condemns himself to dwell there.
We imagine him resonantly receding; perhaps loping atop a La Manchan steed, his arms furiously flailing in a vacuous attempt to defame his predecessors. Suddenly his curious costume is snatched by the blade of a wheeling windmill. Away goes Poor king CO MA DI, gracelessly lofted from his regal reverie, up, around, and around, counter clockwise he realizes with a characteristic mixture of anxiety and chagrin. “I must do better at seeing where I am going! How else will I become Emperor?”
As if he had minted the word ungracious, Poor king CO MA DI lingered . . . ‘til the shadows of the doorway barely alighted on their backs as they left the auditorium. He then turned his furrowed face toward confounding the present. “They are all corrupt!” Again with the annoying whine. Attempting to separate himself, as do all pretenders, he fumbles, stumbles, bumbles. “Reminds me of RMN,” someone inaudibly asided.
“Walt Whitman said so!” Poor king mumbles, while numbly succeeding in confounding only himself. He jumps onto the dais. “2.0, 2.0, 2.0!” he chants, as the audience, aghast at seeing the Poor king naked, that is, never expecting such a blatant confirmation of animosity and ineptitude.
“If only I had the right clothes! I would be Emperor!” he screams into the Castilian night. The huge white wheel, as if sensing an irritant attached to itself, whirls faster, its mechanism rumbling, rattling, and convulsing. The ground, the sky, the ground again! “STOP! STOP EVERYTHING I HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH!”
Poor king CO MA DI, the size of the font on his campaign posters proclaiming his intense desire for adequacy, but limited by . . . . well, limited. His extraordinary lack of creativity, his bottomless void, all he can think is to try to eradicate the past, where he alone is sinking, little, by exceedingly little.
Into Divine oblivion, Poor king CO MA DI, your timeworn treadmill keeps rolling, in reverse.
Martin Gantman is a artist who lives in West Hollywood.