Archive for the ‘Саманта Смит’ Category

HUAC

Dream or awake, I’m not sure,

but that episode of Law & Order SVU, season 72,

seemed familiar,

the scenario similar to NCIS season 48,

episode nine.

Perhaps I’m mistaken,

or have been hallucinating,

after all, I also vividly remember seeing

bizarre, updated (second-rate) versions of

MacGyver, Magnum PI and Knightrider.

… And, if they could, they would

be electing Ronald Reagan President again!

Seeing and being aware of,

I feel no desire to partake.

So, I change the channel

and am blown away by the utter garbage:

Brand new, award winning, tawdry *shit*.

Putrid.

I apologize: now I see the appeal of never-ending golden series

and remakes from “olden” times.

… Come back *original* MacGyver, agent of peace.

 

(To be continued…)

       

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

 

 

 

 

Samantha Smith came to me,

in another dream,

saying

we’re so much the same…

… In our façades of freedom and decency,

we persecute our dissidents

quite similarly.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

And I wondered what if…

Samantha Smith hadn’t died.

The child superstar no one seems to remember…

Wise,

with spunk,

she changed lives.

And while many mourn Hillary’s demise,

I wonder what if Samantha Smith had become

President of the USA.

Who she was and would have been, today.

And how much better the world would be.

But,

alas…

In “reality”,

sadly, very sadly,

I imagine the system would have molded

and stymied her into

another pathetic,

grasping,

power-maximizing,

political drone.

Disenchanted,

once again,

I curl into the foetal position

on my pathetically anemic,

uncomfortable

bed.

Reality is hard.

I wish for sleep,

alternative

actuality.

 

©ddr7hd

 

Samantha Smith visited me last night,

my how she has grown!

She smiled knowingly

and reminded me that we’re all the same,

just inconsistent

in application, desire, situation, desperation, and focus,

time and place,

depending who our neighbours are,

and whether we’ve been used and abused,

discarded.

Apart from that, we’re all pretty much the same,

she smiled, simpering coquettish, arms akimbo,

as she whispered: “fucked and forgotten”.

She drank a glass of red wine,

then another,

as we talked.

I asked her about life and death,

she said she’d finally found peace.

She pause appropriately,

silent.

Stupidly, I felt compelled to fill what I mistook for a void:

“Current affairs?” I ventured.

“No thank you!” she exclaimed.

So,

we played a word-association game,

something a Freudian taught her,

intelligent fun.

Indeed.

On and on.

Late,

alas,

it had been a long day and night,

though stimulated,

tiredness hit and

I fell asleep.

Strange dreams inside the goldmine…

An hour or two later

I awoke and she was gone.