The lesser-known Trojan Elk
After Me, there will be a flood -- of delusion. The Trojan Elk will empty out at 3:20 p.m. in the past, underneath the Flor de Baltimore sign, straddling the tracks, in the Border Town. Out will pour Ionians and Dorics, of course, rounding up all the Helens and Hellenes that they can sway with their Oratory, with their Rhetoric, with their Rubrics of Avant Modern Shizzle. John Coltrane will chant "Delude Supreme, Delude Supreme" while a woman nicknamed Hot Cups will bring the coffee, two sugars, two creams. O, Apres Moi, O, Apres Moi. Because, you know, the flood is taken for granted, by now. It is -- the Whitewashing -- at issue. We are Spectacle, and everything, these days, is a Close Shave. To own your own mind is to be the loaner of an only heart. If there remained only one Heart or one Casket or one Rump of Beef, in which would you invest, as a money-making venture? If you chose the latter, and it got out of hand, you'd be stuck with a Rumpus of Beef, so choose wisely. And roast enough Rumpus to feed those rampaging Ionians. Apres Moi, I would hope that one could tell a Heart from a Casket, a Delude from a Deluge.