WHITE BUFFALO: The Story of a Mayan Prince

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THE ESSAY ON THE REAGAN ADMINISTRATION by Pablo Bruto III

[Traverse]

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SCENE:
There’s a dead dog in a tipi of stones
killed by a truck on the frontage road.
The flies, ants, and other critters
take over now. They make a buzz.
The rot is awful in the early summer heat.
The carcass looked peaceful enough,
at the start of the process. In my grief,
I get this puppy corpse mixed up with my

Boy - does that get the party started!

Dear Dead President. You were no hero.

You were the embodiment of a specific
strain of American selfishness, a brand
of narcissism, which in finer folk is
tempered by actual innocence and sober
determination, an agrarian sensibility,
a spirit of practicality, and a balance
of pride, derived of self-representation,
self-determination, within the context
of shared vision, commonwealth, rooted
in principles of equality, governed by
an overarching adherence to justice,
as a form of accountability. You acted
as if your role is the typical American,
but as has become clear, yours was a
pantomime. You were a puppet, a
marionette. Your masters were bankers,
the grim-faced Yankees, whose threaded
patterns of avarice and mendacity mimic
the open source of our new web. The lovers
of accumulated wealth and doctored
anonymity, unlike the beautiful structure
of Bill & Bob’s venture. Your handlers
love lineage, as with the hemophilliacs
and the cake-eaters, as opposed to the
progressions of Dalai Lamas or MacLean
[Duart] Clan Chiefs. Your scriptwriters
adore alliances and secret society,
exclusion and the invisible hand. Adam
Smith’s hand of greed joined with others’
bones, nodding skulls and ancient chants.
Every variety of debauch catalogued,
every ceremony of spiritual elevation
challenged. In the end, the reproduction
of self, from self, the end for the means.
Self-improvement, not by realization,
but by genetic manipulation or surgical
enhancement. The big Scheme of Things.

As the stream beds bake in the ever more
fiery sun. As the wind delivers ash or
earth to concrete wastelands. Private
armies of once-great nations of freeman
to serve the petty and venal aspirations
of the earthly Lairds & wannabe hierophants.
The long views are inevitably mediocre
and prone to trivialities in the short
term, the type that cost lives and livings.
Lack of conscience is the defining trait
amongst your Base, fiends that they are,
and worth the guillotine’s metal in all
instances. Fuck them and you.

I voted for Ronald Reagan in 1980. It is
my albatross. I salve the self-inflicted
wound by recognizing my youthful stupidity,
my desire to not conform, as my Mountaineer
peers knew better, good Union people, and
hunters, warriors in times of war, not
pretenders. Now, to their prolonged shame,
they are your staunch advocates, to their
detriment.

[SCENE: THE ANTI-ABORTIONIST]

In our play you are the doctor, or rather
you play the doctor, and in your skeletal
spectral fingers is the scalpel. On the table
is the infant, and at your side the nurse
Nancy. With great extravagance of gesture
you resolve to not carve into the child’s
flesh. In a gracefully charming soliloquy,
though hardly eloquent, only stilted - you
seemed always a little worried you would
forget the lines - the man who would be
President, the most powerful man in the
free world, only proved himself the man
whose great gift was pretense of power, as
proxy, not as the great stewards, but as
a buffoon, a clown dressed as a lead man,
a pimp, a seller of himself, but with
himself his greatest fortune, the free
world, to a cadre of dwarfs and inbreeds,
imbeciles with mannerisms and lisps as
ancient as their bloody homes, sustained
desperation is their  greatest marvel,
in not achievement, though they count
those as proudly and carefully as those
of their enemies they destroy from a
distance or in contrived circumstance.
The bomb is for them the dream. The drone
is their wet dream. The corporation is
their personhood and community. They own
without owning. They kill while eating
rich fare. This for the Geppetto is the
finest of realities, inducing a sensation
that refinement of the physical experience
is best accomplished remotely. While
chains of causalities bind the natural
ecology, the Manager, not a man, but a
Man, a Superman in a Super Class [not our
DC Superman, but Nietzsche’s], a capitalized
Man, a founder, descendant of founders, the
prime survivors - What delusion! - For each
is to die and that is not divine. It is what
we do on our timeline that defines the divine.

Oh, and THAT CHILD ON THE MESA begins to speak
in a voice none can dissemble and a language
none other can dictate, for the mighty of this
realm own nothing but their breaths and not even
this, when not-knowing is not the point, only
a point of origination, and knowing is pointless.

[REAR PROJECTION ON SILK, BACKSTAGE]

In real time, the same time, Man’s time, to
which he ascribes the qualities of timelessness,
as He imagines them to be, and which they are
decidedly not, Man pines for the era of his
ancestors’ wildings, by carriage and crop,
in the visitation of whores, offspring, in the
appearance of purity, a throne. Dispensation
by seal. A coat of arms, an armored manikin,
harking back to more dangerous history, clever
contrivances and courtly utterance, beyond
Romance, before its invention, the nuance,
the comedy of errors, the Bastille, the Gold
of the New World, salvation by florin,
Michelangelo’s dying slave, plagues and rats,
corruption and Apocalypse >

[MONTAGE]

< the diseased Oak, bedrock of civilization,
conquest of heathens [War on Terror], pilgrimage
and finally the creative destruction of spiritual
monopoly, in art once again the Confession, only
with no sin, since lesser souls are susceptible
to stain, or else history would speak differently

[SCENE}

So: the baby on the table does speak differently
So:: Man endows nurse with the power to kill baby,
pretending to refuse her that right, sure that
she will redouble her efforts, take up the blade,
make the cut, the ceiling above them glass, added
incentive.

[FROM THE SHADOWS, STAGE RIGHT]

: Be creative. Be innovative. Be entertaining.
:: We are all artists.

HIGH PRIEST:
But lo, behold! Tis the Dimensional Age!
The Age of Organization Man, the Epistemological
Era is done!

DOKTOR SPEEDKILLS:
[AS MERCURY]
Lateral and flat, horizontal!

WHITE BUFFALO:
*Find a cave or a ledge, and stare at a beetle.
*Study stone, fresh water and clouds, in that order, then ocean.

[AUTHOR’S NOTE, REAL TIME]

: I watched “Up in the Air” and the Backpack metaphor
(I thought) might be really effective to a person who
has never entered the woods with a gun, knife & grief
to meet Bear, with no expectation of survival, no
pre-awareness of the purpose of the task, no concern
about the outcome, no anticipation of rescue, no other
plans. Who lives out of two small carry-ons for as many
years, and longer, as a mode, a movement. Man fails to
discern THIS is the human condition. No psychology. No
culture study, but immersion without division. No over,
no under, only provisions and an evolving itinerary. No
time, only timing. No divorce between here and anyplace
else.

GAMEMASTER:
In the dimensional all is revealed as what it is.

WHITE BUFFALO:
What an amazing time to be alive.

NARRATOR:
The new media is contingent on the electrical grid.

*The Thunders rule the grid.
*The Spider rules the web.

GAMEMASTER:
Man does not.

THUNDER: Ha. Ha.

NARRATOR:
Every Man who builds a dungeon with gold
will live in it and die.