This poem was recently revised, and due to formatting problems has been re-posted out of chronological order. 

Making History

Nov 2 2008

As I write this

we await, breathless

the election of the first black President,

whom we hope will transcend

the blue states

the red states

the purple prose,

the culture wars

that divide the great Republic

we foreigners all love

to loathe

and envy.

May you live in interesting times

some sage once said,

both a curse

and a blessing —

the self-importance of now,

the big event

that means everything.

But immersed in the noise,

the end of history

the new beginnings,

times are always interesting.

Because someone, somewhere

is falling in love

or falling to death

or falling

to his inner demons.

And on cold wet nights

when darkness comes too early

he trudges home,

to the light in the window

the steamy kitchen

the soft warm bed

he will share,

making history

one small kiss at a time;

one timeless night

making love.

Oblivious

to the sturm und drang

of politicians.

I wrote this poem to mock the pompous self-importance, the preening narcissism of the present, the now: it's always the most important election, a transformational moment, the end of times. The trouble is, we too easily forget the past; and when we remember it, patronize it with soft focus nostalgia. By way of example, the 50's was not a time of father knows best and drive-ins; it was the beginning of mutual assured destruction and the scourge of McCarthyism. 

And even if there are "in-between" times when nothing important really does seem to be happening, the personal always transcends the political. So even then, cataclysmic change is happening, and it's happening a million times every second of every day. 

My thanks to Francis Fukayama, whose premature proclamation allowed me to give "the end of history" its full ironic potential!