PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Always the same process to reach, and then confirm, the

same result; that is what you mutter to yourself,

after your advocate has conveyed to you the

unappealable, and unappealing, decision of the

final, disinterested, and merciless court.  This was a

last-minute, last-ditch effort of delay if not of

complete overturn; but the primetime schedule

being what it is; audience excitement and demand

verifyably high; and advertisers seeking to place

their commercial announcements in the most

strategically profitable position during the broadcast---the

request for stay was already compelled to fail.  Time is

already draining away.  In homes around the world---for the

whole globe is now a broadcast venue---snacks are

cooking or refridgerating,  Homework and the balancing of

checkbooks will be hastily completed.  Multitudes have

consumed a quick meal from disposable tableware, to

avoid the inevitable chore that follows traditional dining.  The

support staff that are to assist you tonight do not use the

phrase "last meal" or any variant upon that---not just

because the regulations determine what they may or may not

say to you at this difficult time, but also because they have

sufficient compassion to understand the reason this would be

not only discourteous, but also downright cruel.  You can only

swallow a little before looming fear tightens your throat.  The

process of putting on the customary uniform temporarily---and

just slightly temporarily---distracts you; until you wonder, aloud (the

attendants' shocked and awkward silence affords you just a bit of

amusement) why any person doomed to the immanent cessation of

life is required to submit to proper and acceptible grooming---shower,

cologne, the combing of hair and a quick shave.  The answer, so

obvious it need not be stated:  network requirements, to ensure the

maximum enhancement of the sponsors' profits.  Would you have

foreseen this decades ago, when your preliminary efforts turned

toward the gifted children---"Out of your league," something told

you, and "This cannot end well, wherever and whenever it ends."  Then

you moved on to the adolescents, a much more challenging but

satisfactory focus of your interest.  (Of course, everyone knows that

society's standards required you to testify that you observed two

beautiful boys exchanging a kiss in the shadows of the stadium, where

you had just happened to be standing.  Their fate---death by casual

torture, featuring primarily the sudden dislocation of joints followed by

slower mutilation choreographed to maximize both the intensity and

duration of excruciation---was probably foreordained:  shoulder-length

hair is always a sign of an inevitably disasterous end.)  How ironic, you

realize, that you, too, are facing the quite unnatural termination of your

existence---if not imposed in exactly the same way, yet still as

lethal.  Now, they escort you out.  You  walked this passageway from the

officials' lockers many times; but never has it seemed, paradoxically,

so long as well as so short.  Sudden brighntess of glaring spotlights

momentarily hurts your eyes (you do not know, but one of the more

fanatical collectors will acquire your eyes before they can be crushed).

Your ears are assailed by the sudden roar of the crowd as you enter

their view---from the private, and sumptuously catered, enclosed

boxes reserved for the Party elite; to the expensive and cheapened

seats for the administrators, instructors and managers, and the

standing room only for the dictatorial proletariat.  This is, historically, a

sign of respect and good sportsmanship accorded to the senior

official, the chief referee, who presides over the game fairly, wisely, and

without favoritism or prejudice.  The umpire, the linejudge, the

chainbearers and the statisticians greet you with sincere admiration for

your long career and successful advancement---up to this point, of

course, the long awaited, much anticipated Supreme Playoff which

all of them are relieved that they will not share with

you.  Gamblers are still placing their wagers in these

few moments before the Starting Cannont fires; bookies

are updating their records, and enforcers are already

cracking their knuckles grimly One team will be victorious---no tie ever

survives the euphemistically named "sudden death"---and one

will not.  Then you will be handed, bodily, to the partisans of the

losers.  They, in the ferocious frenzy of their frustrated disappointment,

will literally tear you into so many pieces, the

remaining fragments of you---what will not be taken as

souvenirs of the event---will have to be swept into a

dustpan by an inevitably grumbling janitor who hopes to

prolong the assignment into a more lucratively paid overtime.

Starward