Goodbye to Camelot...

By May 24th not even PNM people wanted to be associated with Patrick Manning, they spit on him and threw him out of the Balisier yard.

Now here we are, barely six months along and he is appearing to be the hope for the rudderless and drifting PNM and the answer to a people now frustrated by an Administration that was dead since in the womb.

How hollow the anti-Manning diatribe sounds now in the face of such total failure and almost certain systemic collapse, how tragic some of these figures appear in the bright light of their own incompetence.

Like some garish amusement park oddity, one by one they make themselves available to the population through selfish over exposure, only to burn out in the glare of an intelligent and questioning populace who, having 'done so' on request, are now waiting on the directions to the much promised promise land.

Belaboring the metaphor to the 'enth' degree, there is no mana, no gold for calf building, and the six months spent in the desert is straining the people, throats parched, eyes burning, forty years too burdensome for sin so light.

Like Macbeth in the full throes of his insanity, many are cursing the red ink they dipped their finger into, now stained red forever, their hands red with the blood of their own children if the carnage on this watch were to continue.

Mama Trinidad is suffering bad now, her children dying in the streets while some drunken themselves in mock glory to nothing accomplished but talk, so much empty, profitless, nothing talk.

What cards do these people have left to play before they admit it was all a ruse?

What is left in the hoodwink sideshow of misdirection and illusion that has been parading and masquerading as governance for the past six months?

Will they arrest Manning?

Call a State of Emergency?

And then what?

Will the people roll over and die?

Now that even the police force barely wants anything to do with them, who will they call on?

FIFA?

Ghosbusters?

CARICOM?

The Maharaj sisters?

Being the only commentator daring to question the constant posing and camera ops, I remember being assaulted by journalists for daring to pick at the hallowed troupe ascending the magic mountain, and  in my innocence I apologized for I had no clue that they were admonishing from among the ranks.

Had I known the level of their treachery to the profession I would have paid them no mind, I would have seen them for who and what they were, about to do their best work on their backs, legs spread and waiting.

Yet here we are, six months in, and those same scribes are left like beached fish at low tide, tossing this way and that hoping to find their way back to the healing waters of integrity.

You who portrayed yourself as the hope for a better day seem to have made fools of those who believed your song.

Many curse themselves for believing in you and supporting you, while others who I swore bled yellow and orange blood are abandoning you, like rats leaving a doomed ship to its fate, the writing so indelible on that wall it's now just a matter of time.

Let your death throes begin.

Silence your critics.

Abuse the power of the State.

Stand together for all the world to see you for what you are.

Then exit without fanfare, and defend your legacy on your own.