Danse Macabre

Danse Macabre Twin Old Glorys jitterbug above the hoods as silent heralds; the motorcade congas three-abreast along the Stemmons Freeway sleek in shiny chrome. Long honks and short beeps unite in harmonious homage to the office that cradles a nation in her oval skirts. Dallas, late November blue sky framing puffy clouds, is a cabaret bobbing in frenetic throb to the glam life-beat of its honored cortege. As they swing onto Main, the image bounces off the dark glasses of the austere men that line the parade route like lampposts, and beams to an adoring world. With a blast and a life-tearing flash, a keen emerges from the back of the shiny limousine that jumps through the light implanting itself into the intimate memories of a generation. The suits whirl about in impotent rage as the surge of flesh undulates forward in grief, back in terror and commences a final march while a distant freight train avers its dolor with a mournful whisper. As night falls on a blood-soaked plaza the wind whips up and the leafy trees on the grassy knoll sway a spectral dance. By Jay Herman For Nette Onclaud's Let's Dance contest