The New Gladiators

The New Gladiators are the perfect vehicle to sell Nike or Adidas. Gold, silver or bronze. They march with a certain solemnity into the rectangularity of the football pitch while The Lions roar and The Saints pray. The moving billboard puppets excite The Buccaneers so they can shout their patriotic anthems out of tune. The Roman Emperors with their inmutable routine, thumbs-up / thumbs-down, look more ridiculous than ever and not powerful at all. The one who scores will live in disproportionate luxury. The losers will be forgotten. No front pages. No history for them.

Journalists. Critics. Betting houses. Agents. They all venerate the shirt, the shield, the flag, the club, the nation, the crude nature of the new Roman Empire.

Rumor has it we’re here to compete, to annihilate the dissident, to decapitate the enemy, to defeat the rival without mercy. Is that so? Pity those who go for a life of leisure, a nihilist haven, a dolce far niente, a Roman holiday lost in the ruins. Long live the Gate without the Heaven since there is nothing to prove, to conquer, to achieve. The lethany goes: No mountain to climb. No client to convince. No dollar to be made. No vote to be casted. No promise to be kept. No reason to remember. No party to attend. No empathy for the loser. No admiration for the victorious warrior, World Cup. World Series. Olympic games. I don’t care for a tournament of poetic rhymes either. I hope the actors dismantle the stage and burn all the seats. I hope previously the writer runs out of ink. I hope the camera fights with the lense. I hope the director fires the producer. I hope disenchantment doesn’t show in my face. I hope the empty tank stands no evaluation. I hope some motivation arises with the morning sun. Why the smile doesn’t flourish after the final joke. Yeah, I still hope the doctors fall in love with the care and may the members of government return their salaries to the poor (What are these guys elected for?). I hope the month of May arrives in May. No climate changes. One day, in May, the poor may return their greasy leftovers to the Chamber of Commerce. Every 4th of July, may the terminal patients exchange life expectations with the drug manufacturers. I certainly hope the flowers of May reappear in the brown fields of Fall.

Defeated, The Gladiator returns home. The Winter is long.


Painting: One dollar flag

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