Processing All This

Don't apologize, don't recant, don't explain yourself—decent enough words, in this time, can scarcely find the wherewithal to escape our contracting chests, and hardly any string of them we pull from our frayed, knotted balls of yard do seem to do the trick of giving a semblance of release, of catharsis, of connection. We close our eyes, but the bright red lights of sirens seem to breach through like the forceful sun. Guttural screams might make a better anthem for our times. It's been said that history repeats itself: first as tragedy, then as farce. It's been said that history doesn't repeat itself, but it rhymes. Whatever the antecedent to this horror we see on our TV's may be, it's starting to seem like a period is imminent—one which will be followed by silence. Do you see what happens to a poet in fear and dismay? A big bleeding block stain behemoth thing: see above. you speak of finding a new home, young pilgrims, pioneers with hearts in your hands, with the abjection in your faces that speaks decency in a sea of obscenity. you have more in common with your brave ancestors, who left behind everything for promises of nothing, than you ever could with the evil which convalesces. Do not pile on your own antagonism. Immigrants, seeking a chance, are all kin. Those in fear, seeking refuge, belong to the same house. If the moment manifests in your palm as a sword, you will know what to do. But, I implore you, do not take the sins of wild hogs on your head. Fuck these pigs. If they come to us, we will let them know, but as for me, I think it wouldn't be a half-bad idea to take my pearls and go.