Mortaljive: The Rest is Silence

There is no still point in all the Universe, and that is the rock upon which I stand

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

The Bad Magician and a Sinecure of Poison

The Bad Magician has already not existed. He has already forgotten the future. The circle is complete but abstract. The Bad Magician awakens in the melting ice. The water runs along his fingers in streams of kinetic lines. His head elevated, his back arches, his cloak sweeps its blackness skyward. Rising, rising, rising. Time to go see the great Sinecure of Poison.

“I’m coming for you, Karl,” whispers the Bad Magician in the manner of the Crows. “And I carry your dead mother as my cross.”


When the Dark underground went labyrinthine, Karl grabbed his chest, broke his ribs, gripped hard his blood muscle and shut his eyes, the colors red in blackness. He saw the Game, made white his knuckles and drew vestiges of skin on his humanity. His mother lay dead at his feet, his father a lie, his life a deceit. He strutted his shame into a Sinecure of Poison. A man assaulted, with lies and precious loss, so to conjure a countenance to face an horrid world, he breaks his bonds of humanity, and feeds on the liver of the fire-bringer. Karl is dead, long live Karl. It is 1981. Mother rides a cross in the sky. She will not return except by Olde Magick. Shadows are forever hiding.

The Bad Magician finds the midnight weeds of Danish murder, thrice blasted, thrice infected, and pours the dream cocktail in the ephemera, the white clouds, the tidal blood of a defeated human. Rove paces, he races, he traces but he cannot evade his Mother, His Father, the entanglements that made him stone, that creaked his bones, that broke his palace. The Bad Magician swings wide the gate and bids Karl enter.

It is decrepit, hollow, burnt. The edges of a man define the borders of horror. His best response, the gutting of the world, falls from his hand like a cheaply made knife. Blood of his mother. Blood of his life. What sorrows are thence exhaled, dear Richard Three? What enemy shall you sue to, for release from fate is a point of sticking.

The Bad Magician fashions a kite out of Karl Rove’s mother. She laughs and calls to Karl, the Flying Cross with Mother self-crucified. “No fair!” yells Karl. But Karl defeated fairness long ago, and none can save him now. His mother soars. Karl breaks down. The world is ravaged from the small mayhem of lives corrupted. Karl cries out, a Sinecure of Poison’s last invocation of a distillated malice. Poor Karl. Poor World.

The Bad Magician strolls to the gates, walks out, closes them. Karl alone in his broken garden. The Bad Magician walks to a burning forest, takes a leap across a great divide and navigates the last impediments of time and space. The Game is always on.


Author’s note: From Wikipedia “At Christmas of 1969, Rove's father walked out of the marriage; his parents then divorced. After the divorce, Rove learned from his aunt and uncle that the man who had raised him was not his biological father; both he and an older brother were the children of another man. Rove has expressed great love and admiration for his adoptive father and for "how selfless" his love had been. In 1981, Rove's mother committed suicide in Reno, Nevada, when Rove was 30 years old. When Rove was in his 40s, he finally met his biological father.”

It is this author’s contention that Karl Rove is a hollow and emotionally violated man, a wraith, a tragic victim. He has turned his own woeful life story into a vengeful and macabre attack on decency and humanity and all those things which fair and compassionate people hold dear. He is what people used to refer to as a "cursed human" who in return has cursed the world.


Image "Death and Fire" by Paul Klee from here.



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