Evolution of a Spectacle


Jessica Nugiel

Oval Office, pristine and polished, a place originally regarded as flawless. Now phones are switched to video and cameras shut-shut-shutter, only to capture Kanye West’s foolish yak and yabber. This talk of toxic manliness and drops of mother f-er- Oh! Roosevelt, Abe Lincoln, JFK, how the poor souls must be turning in their grave. Now that Oval Office, stained, dirtied, and tainted, remains a home welcoming shame.

Cracked soda cans and torn up clothes were snagged on broken branches of petrified life. Bunches of flames scattered around beaten down homes. Roofs torn away, long gone to another place. Abandoned citizens, left without love, gifted with newfound no-homes. Schools demolished and shredded apart, debris lying comfortably with non-beating hearts.

Napalm rained down on Vietnam like God cried down on Earth, where lenses focused only on them– the children wailing, burning to the bone, racing down Route 1, bare feet scraped and bloodied, and Kim Phuc, hurdling away from the dismayed Trang Bang, her uglied, nude body, scarred and sabotaged, blistering flesh peeling off her spoilt back, only flashing Nikons were there to open their arms.

Steak a la carte, red wine, buy-1-get-1 celeryroot, and treats by Hobart. Nimble fingers pulling at juice, deli meat, bread, and dropping sweet tarts into the cart. Plop-plop-plop, the items sounded with a start. Looking to the left, there she was crying out her heart, the shopper picked up the tabloid with blood-curdling enthusiasm and placed Paris Hilton right on top.