Real Bush

I realize how it must seem to you sometimes, Bush: it must seem like I never have a good word for you. Well, just to remind you, only yesterday I approved your brush-clearing at Crawford. Good, healthy, mind-clearing work. Today, well… I watched a couple of clips from your speech this morning, about the tsunami disaster in Asia, and what the U.S. is doing to help. And I'm glad we're sending $34 million, and that this, as you promised, is only the beginning. I'm really glad...

... But what struck me as you spoke, as is often the case when I watch you, Bush, is the extraordinary difficulty you have in simply appearing real. That may seem like a strange thing to say, but I find that I just don't buy the "President" that you're presenting us with. It's partly that you seem unable to speak without a script. What could it have cost you so have said a few heart-felt, unscripted words? Just a touch of spontaneity for the world at large at this dreadful momnt? I mean, I have to believe you have a "real" voice, not just that strange, robotic monotone in which you always address us on all subjects, from election victory to global tragedy. I hear the words "say" that your heart goes out, that you're distressed, that you're praying for the victims. But I just don't "feel" it, Bush. It always sounds like something you were told to say.

I hate to say this, Bush, because it seems unkind. But we did agree from the start that we were going to be completely honest, right? And the truth is, the only time I feel in touch with the genuine, authentic Bush is in those moments of smug self-satisfaction, when that famous smirk appears. It's sad to have to admit this, but it's only when you smirk like that I feel I'm seeing the real you. It's what I've heard called a "truth response." And I believe it.

Ah, well. A poem for you, called

Think

Think of the depths
of the Indian ocean
as the earth's heart. Think
of how her heart was ruptured,
torn apart.

Think of yourself
as her lover, how you have used
her body for your pleasure
and to satisfy your needs
and then betrayed her,
casually, when it suited you.

Think of the tremors
as the heart's raw pulse,
the heart's last desperate effort
to feed her body. Think
of the great waves as her rage;
the lives lost as tribute
exacted for her rage.

Then think of the enormity
of the pain, so much inestimable
grief, so much regret. So much
reparation to be made. So much
in the earth's heart
to be healed. Let's
get to work.