The last thing he saw was the joy in her eyes.
Back home the flowers have wilted and the balloon,
twisting slowly in the now-stale air,
sinks lower and lower to the ground.
I so want to be optimistic and airy, to write of
our generous spirit, to wax poetic about moon landings
and beach landings, entrepreneurship, sliced bread,
the assembly line, the World Wide Web. It feels un-American
I hire the police that protect my home from the hordes
that would tax me: I need nothing from the state, and so
give nothing to the state.
I hope it’s not too late to stop the carnage.
America forgives itself so easily, as
though we weren’t forgiving but forgetting.
Peel back my eyes
and touch the still-healing wound
oozing cerebral fluid from the Big Bang.
It’s in this blind space of raw pain
I often dwell.
Words are pails we use to scoop the insensate flames,
to continue our sole, great project: perfecting the footpath,
protecting it from entropy, from one another, from ourselves.
“How does one with no boots
pull himself up by his bootstraps?”
“Why teach someone to fish
then deny them access to the lake?”
I just read that the virus is mutating, anti-vaxxers are joining other unsavory elements to protest public health measures, the president doesn’t see the need for mass testing but is now getting tested daily…
Do I turn out the light?
What remains for me
before the clock strikes hard?
¿Apago la luz?
¿Qué me queda antes de que
el reloj marque duro?
Cada noche me subo a mi tejado solitario
para maravillarme de lo no dicho,
y sé que también estás mirando hacia arriba, que la
leche fresca que vierte de la oscuridad
también te apacigua a ti.