Sunday, December 21, 2014


I will not by the noise of bloody wars and the dethroning of kings advance you to glory, though there's plenty of that. Blood on the camouflage pants, blood on the pistol, blood on the seats, blood on the street, blood in the air, blood on the platform, blood in sentences, blood in our bodies soaked in rage. Light the wick and watch us burn. Let us confuse spirit for the literal word: call it revenge and torture it. Take its photo and put it on Instagram. Make a pun of Trump, or Garner. Be clever. Cleave us apart by category, transfix us with our selfies. Call for revolution on websites devoted to poems. Read the comment streams that wend their way around trees and rocks and broken plastic toys. Inbibe them, get drunk on their syllables. I don't care what you think, he wrote me back. Where back cannot go forth, can only confront. Back to square one, museum of our incapacities dressed as super powers. How loud we are, and sad. He wasn't even who he claimed to be.

--21 December 2014

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