The Wail of the Amerian Democrat

Nancy O'Brien Simpson

Photo: commons.wikimedia.org by Leosmedley, https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/

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Oh, the great wailing of the Democrats, their voices carried on the winds of Twitter rants and late-night laments, their despair tumbling down the avenues of New York and San Francisco, rolling like lost tumbleweeds through the heartland, rattling the diner booths of men who long ago stopped listening.

Trump! Trump! Trump! They cry his name like a curse, a dirge, a funeral wail for a country they believe slipping into the abyss, but oh, don’t they see? Don’t they know? The man, the myth, the ghost from golden towers was conjured not by accident, not by fate, but by their own hands, their own smug self-assurance, their own failure to hear the growl of the land beneath them.

They write their think pieces, sip their oat-milk lattes, shake their heads at the barbarian hordes they barely understand, yet in their righteous fury, in their desperate protestations, they reveal the truth they dare not utter—Trump is not some cosmic aberration. He is the mirror, the shadow, the inevitable answer to their blind sermonizing, their unbroken chain of bureaucratic babble and empty promises. And still, they cry. And still, they wail.

Where is the reckoning? Where is the hard look in the rearview mirror of the great American road trip, where the roadside diners and crumbling Main Streets tell stories no one in Washington wants to hear? No, better to sigh, to moan, to cast blame like dice in a game they think they’ve already won. But the game rolls on, wild and reckless, untamed as the highways stretching beyond the neon glow of their safe little cities.

Yes, man, they need to shut the f**k up. We all saw it, saw the old man wandering, looking for a way off the stage like a lost soul at a county fair, shaking hands with the air, slack-jawed, the slow shuffle of a man who should be at home with a blanket and a cup of tea, not running the so-called Free World. And they lied, the whole machine lied, the talking heads, the op-eds, the network phonies—sharp as a tack, they said! A steel trap mind! They told us this with straight faces, like we were children, like we hadn’t seen the thing with our own goddamn eyes. And then the debate came and, baby, the emperor was naked under those hot white lights, stripped bare, standing there mumbling while America watched and groaned and knew.

And then, ha, then! Like absolute morons, they stuck us with the most unpopular VP since—hell, maybe ever—a woman who speaks in slogans, in speeches that loop back on themselves, who talks like a substitute teacher who just discovered TikTok, who flips and flops and cackles and tells us to take pride in things that don’t even make sense. “I own a gun,” she said, “I love fracking,” she said. Whatever sells, baby, whatever sells.

But what even are they selling? War? More war? Bombs and drones and steel and fire? Because that’s what they are now, the old anti-war left is gone, vanished into the mist of history, replaced by a machine that grins and nods and signs the check for the next war, the next campaign, the next cash grab in a country most Americans couldn’t find on a map. A uniparty of cold hands shaking behind closed doors while the rest of us rot.

And Trump—ah, Trump, the wild king of chaos, the barker at the carnival, the grinning madman selling the dream. A dream that maybe isn’t real, but still a dream! He says rah-rah America! He says close the goddamn border! He says families matter, even though his own is a mess, but no one cares because he says the thing, the words, the magic words that make people feel like maybe, just maybe, there’s something left to fight for. He says stop the wars! (Never mind the fine print, never mind Yemen.)

The Democrats are lost, lost like a jazz man who forgot the tune, riffing in the wrong key, crashing through notes that make no sense. Bernie—Bernie was the one, the last real hope, the closest thing to something that felt like it might break through, and they crushed him, flattened him, tossed him out like an old cigarette butt so the war machine could keep humming along.
And here we are, man. Watching the whole tired circus spin on, looking for something, anything, that isn’t just another goddamn lie.