Watch The Hands
It began in the ’90s—
or maybe earlier,
but nobody remembers,
which is how you know
the shell game was working.
Poison the food supply.
Move the shell.
Disregard the weather.
Move the shell.
Destroy the coral reefs.
Move the shell.
Look—
look over here—
another crisis,
another war,
another miracle cure,
another billionaire
promising to save us
by leaving.
The plan was
to go to another planet,
but what they needed
to do first
was fail.
And fail they did.
Spectacularly.
The big, beautiful plan
lifted off
into the stratosphere,
burned through the sky,
and crashed—
again— and again—
and again—
into the ocean.
Everyone watched the rocket.
Nobody watched the hands.
Except for a few.
A few who stood
at the edge of the crowd
pointing at the table,
saying—
There. There is the trick.
There is the shell.
There are the hands.
But nobody listened.
The crowd was too busy
watching the spectacle,
arguing over the shells,
cheering the magician,
booing the magician,
buying another ticket.
That was the trick. Not the shell.
Not the pea.
The hands.
The uptown shuffle,
the slide,
the razz-ma-Taz,
the doo-Wop,
the Diddy,
the shitty-shitty
bang Bang.
Now you see it. Now you don't.
Where did it go?
Under this shell?
No.
This one?
No.
Surely this one.
Look closer.
Keep watching.
Keep guessing.
Meanwhile, behind the little velvet table,
the whole country
was being rearranged.
The map moved.
The money moved.
The truth moved.
Even the meaning
of the words
began to move.
And those few—
those inconvenient few— kept pointing.
Kept shouting.
Kept saying,
You're looking at the wrong hand.
But nobody paid attention.
That was how they succeeded
for so long.
Not because nobody saw.
Because almost nobody
who saw
was heard. And while we argued
over which shell
held the pea,
the table disappeared.
Then the room.
Then the house.
And still—
the few were standing there,
pointing at empty air,
saying:
Look.
Look at the hands.
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