The Rage of George
Rattling of Sabres
The Gods of War
In the Clouds
The Tyrant Flees
Out of Order
Doing the Patriot Act
The Little Prince
Ichor of the Gods
The Price of Peace
Dead or Alive
Across the Border
Summer in the City
Wolf and Jackal
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In the White House, the President sits glumly
Tearing bits of paper into ever smaller squares,
Making small stacks of torn sheets, lining
Them up in tight formation at the table’s edge.
Startled by a sudden knock at the door, he
Gathers the shreds and stuffs them in his pocket.
His secretary sticks her head inside,
George raises his eyebrows in question.
“Your lunch will be here in ten minutes.”
The door closes, leaving George alone again.
The war declared over, daily battle briefings done,
America’s commander-in-chief is bored.
Threatening Syria was fun, he thinks, and smirks.
It’s nice to be the most powerful person in the world,
But something’s missing, he ponders.
Plopping down in his leather desk chair, George
Tries vainly to recapture the clarity and resoluteness
That had driven him so strongly since the events of 9-11.
For George this last year’s been a calling,
As close to epiphany as he has ever been.
He's become his own burning bush, conveyor
Of pure truth, intense and furious,
His adamantine resoluteness a beacon
To his holy crusade.
George has channeled anger into action,
America’s military might at his disposal.
The exhibition of such power has been
Enough to keep him going, kept
The demons away until today when
Boredom and depression have returned.
At times like this Sweet Laura would say
“Get a hobby.” And of late he’d found it, his crusade.
But in the last few days he’s felt restless,
Low on energy and moody. Old yearnings
Old habits return; he chews the inside of his lip
Imagines the cool rush of beer across his tongue.
Of course, his drinking days are long gone.
He remembers waking at 2 a.m. on the floor
His face stuck in vomit of chips and stale beer,
Dry heaves over the toilet, on his knees.
No more of this, he promises to himself and Laura,
Yet, when this emptiness arrives, he’s still tempted.
His sponsor called him a classic dry drunk,
Using ridicule of others and angry tirades
To jack up his adrenaline and lift his darkened mood.
George uses sarcasm and nicknames, always
Offered with a smile, an arm across the shoulders,
While his verbal knife is thrust and twisted.
Simple George, still angry at his father, acts out -
Extra-punitive and mean, but now with
The world’s mightiest military at his disposal.
Surrounded by imagined enemies, beset by demons
George descends. Lacking the gift of Dionysus,
He gets bored, depressed and dangerous.
His phone rings, George picks it up.
It’s Foul Rumsfeld on the line, excited.
“Mr. President, we may have found the WMD!”
The confused silence from Simple George is familiar,
“Oh goodness gracious, sir,
Weapons of Mass Destruction,” Rummy explains.
George perks up, “Tell me more,” he snaps,
“And cut the bullshit Rummy.” George’s mood begins to lift.
“And cut the ‘goodness gracious’ crap,” he shouts,
“That ‘goody-twoshoes’ stuff may work with the media,
But not with me!” “Sorry,” Rumsfeld obeys,
”We think it’s biological.”
Foul Rumsfeld’s voice gets quiet,
“It was underneath Saddam’s smaller palace in Tikrit,
The one with solid gold reflecting pools. Anyway,
Our inspection team found a passageway, well-used.
In a small lab just off the main corridor were vials
And bio-hazard gear hanging nearby.”
His energy level rising, George’s head clears
Thoughts of cold beer gone, he listens.
“Most of the vials are sealed, but one
Is half-filled with an opaque white liquid, half pint,
With markings that indicate it’s hazardous.
The markings are Korean.”
Ah-ha! thinks George, Iraq and North Korea!
Two evil empires plot to rule the world.
MacArthur was right of course, about the Reds.
We should have taken care of that business long ago,
Nuked the bastards once and for all
When we had the chance. George nods.
But Rumsfeld is not done, “One more thing, Mr. President.
And this one’s so hot only you and I can know for now.
The vial’s markings have been translated,
It seems that this biological agent is some
Man-made form of Corona virus. It may be
We have found the true source of SARS.”
Resolute George’s heart pounds, his
Never vanquished, Evil shows its ugly face again!
“Call a meeting of the NSA, and make it soon,” he says.
“Put our top scientists on analyzing this stuff.”
Like he’s kicked back a six-pack, George is giddy
With the truth: He alone can save the world.